


Of Wealth and Leisure

by neck_mole



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Books, Canonical Character Death, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Horseback Riding, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jealousy, M/M, Oblivious Simon Snow, POV Simon Snow, Rivalry, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, high society - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neck_mole/pseuds/neck_mole
Summary: A rivalry won’t prove anything, but it seems to be the only option on our parts. There’s no forced kindness radiating from Mr. Grimm onto his child, as I’m sure they both hold the same sentiment over my staying. It seems as though only Mr. Pitch has the nerve to speak his mind, rather than bite his tongue.-Sir Simon Snow, the apprentice to Lord David, is sent off to stay at the Grimm-Pitch Manor for the next twelve months. While anticipating tension, he's met with a much stranger reality that unravels in his short time there.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> holy sh--(okay no cursing in victorian times). i hadn't expected to post this quite yet, but frankly, after writing over half of the entire fic, i got too excited and decided i'd start publishing now. this ones for everyone else that's a sucker for repressed feelings, slow burns, and just the people out there who saw swordfighting as a tag and was down for that.

As I arrive at the sprawling Grimm-Pitch Manor, I take note that it’s far more bleak in person as compared to what I had imagined.

 

Long, stretched halls and piped towers that streak the rainy Hampshire sky. The lush greenery overwhelms the land even upon closer observation as my carriage rattles on forward, drawing towards the iron wrought gate. It takes three workers on each side to pull it open, allowing us to continue onto the private grounds. The leading horse trots us in as my eyes follow the grand walls through the small door window, curious as to the rumored mysteries that lies within them.

 

The fields rise and fall, dipping into acres of farmland with fieldworkers dotting among the crop. Ivy encompasses the statues and main fountain, delicately trimmed while keeping its natural composition. Of course, I’ve known of the Grimm-Pitch joint wealth, but I hadn’t quite anticipated such a luxurious land. While I’m accustomed to such a life, I’m aware the air of new wealth I carry as compared to their time-old privileges. Word has it, the Pitch money started back with Egyptian high society.

 

New clothes, fine-tailored and the best of London’s handmade luggage. My style, my way of speaking. It’s clear to me, and others of such a class, that I wasn’t always so well regarded in life. Of course, it causes my anxieties to twirl around in my stomach, unsettled by the fears of those holding an older status.

 

Alas, I was given a task, and thus I will fulfill it. What other choices do I have but to follow orders? Conformity, respect, and social stature. That’s all there is to have, and that’s all I have to lose.

 

The carriage jolts to a stop, and I turn my gaze towards the opposite window to peer up at the main building as servants pour out and begin to unload my belongings. They’re followed by none other than Baron Malcolm Grimm himself, trailed far off by his eldest son--the heir to the Pitch name--Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

 

A servant sweeps to my door and swings it open for me, offering a hand as I take a step down and nod at Baron Grimm. I take his extended hand firmly, briefly shaking it.

 

“An honor to have you here, Sir Snow,” he says shortly, grasping my hand before letting his fall to his side. His son doesn’t dare step closer, watching me from the landing of the front doors. He’s a tad unsettling from a distance; stone cold gaze and a tipped-up chin, causing him to stare at me through his lashes. He stands at least a few inches taller than I, and clearly a bitter soul, judging by his expression. Despite his clear harshness told in my initial impressions, I take note that he is impeccably dressed and outrageously confident; a stark contrast to how I feel wearing my cream colored suit. His is a washed out purple, and the inside waistcoat is a soft yellow accented with the same violet stripes. He stands as the epitome of envy and the cause of any self-hatred when one is put beside him.

 

“Pleasure is mine, Mr. Grimm,” I reply, bowing politely before nodding my head to his son. He doesn’t nod back.

 

As the workers rush to bring in my belongings, Mr. Grimm waves me into the estate wordlessly.

 

It’s as lavish inside as out, and as equally showing of time’s wealth. Wooden floors, lined with foreign rugs and elegant, fresh bouquets on all surfaces. I’m hit with the scents of lilac and centuries-aged mahogany, mixed with the mouth-watering smell coming from the kitchen as they prepare tonight’s dinner.

 

Various servants mill around us, rushing from one place to another as they carry fresh vegetables and stacks of linens. Somewhere off in the household, I hear the laughter of children, but it feels distant.

 

The entire estate feels distant. Drawn in. Untouched.

 

Perhaps it’s stemming from the brooding Pitch boy, standing a small distance away and staring daggers into me as I shift my weight forward and back.

 

“Your room will be in the same hallway as my eldest,” Mr. Grimm begins, sweeping me up the stairway. I listen back on the footsteps behind me, suddenly over aware of how exposed I feel upon these grounds. “Of course, it’s one of the best rooms in the house; it overlooks the sprawling gardens.” We stop inside the second floor parlor, clearly just feet from the line of bedrooms.

 

I stay standing, gazing over the piano and resting violin as the breeze trickles through the opened windows. Thinned drapes slowly wave in the wind, haloing the loveseat that the elder Grimm takes a seat upon. His son sits nearby in an armchair, trying to busy himself with a book off the table.

 

“I hope your year’s visit will prove,” Mr. Grimm’s lip turns up in disgust, “interesting for you, Sir Snow. It isn’t too often we get friendly visitors of The _Mage_ ’s men.” His voice drips in mockery, something I seethe at but hold back my expressions for. Many joke over his eccentric actions, as well as his spirituality, but Lord David’s teachings are of a new and exciting stature. Thus, his Mage title has become one that’s recognized throughout the lands.

 

“If you don’t mind me saying, I’m not one of his men, Baron. I’m his apprentice.”

 

A sneer and turning of his nose sets my spine upright, breath nearly tumbling from my lungs as I catch Mr. Pitch’s eyebrow quirk in the corner of my eye.

 

“Yes, well…” Mr. Grimm rises to his feet, buttoning back up his suit. “I have business to attend to. See to it that you make it to dinner, six o’clock sharp on the daily. You’ve past tea, but that is at the typical time. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” He makes his way back down the stairs, leaving me with the intense gaze of his nearby son.

 

I try to gather a thought to express, but he’s much sharper than I.

 

“Don’t sink to the floorboards quite yet,” he hisses, eyes just lifting from the page. His voice is just as icy as I’d anticipated; slices like a shard of glass and as dangerous as poison. “I know what your precious  _Mage_ expects of my family, and I’ll personally see to it that you don’t get the information you’re seeking so pitifully.”

 

My mouth falls to a gape, hand resting at my hip to where my sword would typically lie if I was training. “I don’t quite understand what you-”

 

He gets a kick out of my blubbering, teeth showing in his smile as his chin tips up. “Ah, seems as you’re truly stupid as they say.”

 

“I’m not a common moron,” I hit, taken aback by his blunt rudeness to a guest. “I simply don’t understand what you’re suggesting.”

 

His book snaps shut, sending minuscule flecks of dust swirling into the air around him. Slowly, his fingers drum against the cover as he looks me up and down like a show pony. “Let it be recorded, _Sir_ Snow, that we don’t take too kindly to spies in this residence. If you don't wish to see trouble, I'd expect you to limit the length of your nose. Sniffing for clues will lead you nowhere but down.”

 

I follow his movements as I lock myself in place, hand staying frozen to my hip. I have nothing to do but stare, watching him stand, bow his head, then brush past me back down the staircase.

 

My hand ghosts up to my pocket watch, fingertips trembling as I flick it open and unsteadily try to read its face.

 

With time to spare for dinner, I make my way to my bedroom, to which the door is hanging slightly ajar as a servant finishes putting away the clothes. They glance up to me, nod promptly, then finish smoothing the clothes before running off.

 

The room doesn't lack in the appeal of the rest of the house. It stands as much of a master bedroom as compared to a guest’s (which makes me curious as to what the master room _must_ look like). Baron Grimm was quite right; the view is breathtaking. I unlatch the windows, letting the blooming flowers float into my chambers easily.

 

I remove my hat, settling it gently atop the table of my vanity as I take an eyeful of my figure.

 

I’m starting to suspect I look a tad drab in comparison to Mr. Pitch. He clearly has an affinity for fashion, making me feel undeniably inadequate in my monochromatic ensemble. If I were of a lower class, I might even make the remark that he _owns_ this very fashion. It’s a divine unfairness that he wears himself so well.

 

I locate my sword, unsheathing it and practicing a good whirl to occupy my mind.

 

If I were to follow The Mage’s wishes, I’d be strolling the grounds about now. But, alas, the rain should be sweeping in within the hour.

 

Of course, Mr. Pitch was not wrong. Not that I’ll admit it, for I know the consequences of such dirty business, but I cannot deny my quest to myself. To spy upon the Grimm-Pitch family; get them comfortable, make them think I’m not intruding upon their hushed whispers of secretive alliances for Lord David’s advancements. While it doesn’t bring me joy to do so, and I’m still confused as to why I was picked away from all of his men to do this job, I still serve The Mage without a doubt. After all, he saved my life once. My debt belongs to him.

 

My entire life, past, present, and future is in his debt. My sword, my wealth. It all belongs to Lord David.

 

And I fear I may never escape that.

 

As I return my blade to its sheath, the dinner bell chimes through the corridors and beckons me to the dining room. I’ll wholeheartedly admit that I don’t take my time to get there, excitedly taking my spot at the table as the older family members file into the room. Wordlessly, I nod to Baron Grimm and Mr. Pitch, then briefly introduce myself to Mrs. Grimm. I know it’s unspoken of, the remarriage, but she does seem like a stark difference as compared to the tales of the late Mrs. Pitch.

 

Iron fist but a heart of gold is what those who knew her say. She ruled the house, as the rumors were told, but the dynamic clearly shifted. Baron Grimm holds the power now, and it’s only time until Mr. Pitch takes his title.

 

Speaking of the son, he sits directly across from me. Eyes narrowed and head bowed, he glares at me through his brow and sneers whenever our gazes meet. I’m not quite sure what it means for us, but I’m definite it’s not friendly.

 

A rivalry won’t prove anything, but it seems to be the only option on our parts. There’s no forced kindness radiating from Mr. Grimm onto his child, as I’m sure they both hold the same sentiment over my staying. It seems as though only Mr. Pitch has the nerve to speak his mind, rather than bite his tongue.

 

Dinner ends up quiet but plentiful. The servants seem rather impressed by how much I pack away, and how often I send off for more, but they’ll grow used to it. I do the same when at home.

 

As the clock chimes at seven, everyone begins to untuck their napkins and settle them beside plates. I follow in fashion (despite wanting to protest in hopes for more food), nudging my plate forward after laying my fork and knife on the china. Once done, I glance around at the family in hopes for guidance in my next actions. They disperse, seeming uninterested in any further interactions between each other. While I’m not entirely surprised, I’m not afraid to be rather disappointed. While at home, Lord David spends quite a bit of time away from me and visitors, yet I still make an effort to stay active with others around me.

 

I rather miss Penelope, and Agatha too. While I have not decided upon whether or not we wish to be engaged, I know that Lord David sees a possible union of our families as beneficial (and so does Doctor Wellbelove). Wealth on both sides are balancing, and it’s good to be allied with medical families. The wedding would not be unexpected from others, either. I’ve been seen with Miss Wellbelove about town a few times, as per Lord David’s request. Sometimes, I fear he uses her to make me seem more “human” to calm the rumors of my temper.

 

I’d rather not fan those, but I don’t refute them either. I’m aware I can become aggressive, but I’m more grown now. I don’t have such a spark to fight others as much as I have a drive to be seen as normal.

 

Perhaps, that’s why I wished for a communal time following the meal, but then grew mildly disappointed as they instead went off to their own spaces.

 

In efforts to occupy my mind, I find myself wandering off to the stables. I peer around curiously, strolling down the half-full animal lodging.

 

As I walk, and on the occasion stop to pet a foal, I see a friendly face pop out of the stable house at the end. The person comes more into view as she walks up, grinning cheerfully at me. At first, I nearly mistake her for a man, due to her clothing, but upon closer inspection I see that she’s a woman possibly ten years my senior.

 

“You must be Sir Snow,” she pipes, stepping up and offering me a carrot for the animal I'd been petting. “Words’ been floating that you’d arrived.”

 

My cheeks pull as I grin back, stroking the horse's muzzle and feeding her happily. “Why, yes, I am. No need to address me so properly, I really feel quite odd with that title. Address me privately as Simon, please.”

 

She looks at me a little funnily then nods. “Fair enough, Simon. I’m Ebeneza Petty, but I usually go by Ebb. Ebeneza feels a bit too posh for my liking.”

 

I laugh, hand slowly stroking down the animal’s face and eyes glued onto her as I speak. “Why such a posh name then?”

 

I can hear the smile in her laugh as she speaks. “Come from a sort-of posh family. Not as posh as the Grimm or Pitch families, dear me, but I was a close friend of the younger Pitch daughter. I’d served under Mrs. Pitch as her assistant until her death, too. Poor woman died so young.”

 

Her hand reaches out, running down the other side of the horse’s face as my gaze trails back to her face.

 

While it seems as though everyone else in the castle is taking extensive measures to ignore my company, or even avoid it, Ebb seems to welcome my presence. I’m thankful that she does.

 

“I’ve heard about it. Such a shame.”

 

It’s not a complete fib; I’ve heard rumors of Mrs. Pitch’s death, but never the full tale. There’s a number of ghastly stories, some including vampires, but in the end, it usually boils down to an attack that left her dead and her son injured. While he seems quite well now, I can’t help but remain curious as to what effects it had on him.

 

Ebb nods her head, sighing in a short breath as her walking staff lifts then gently settles back onto the ground. “Do you want some tea, dear?”

 

“If it’s no bother,” I say, tucking my hand into my pocket.

 

She wrinkles her nose, waving her hand. “Not at all. Come along.” She nods towards the stable house and leads me inside, settling me at her kitchen table. She runs the kettle, poking the fire as she grabs some hours old pastries and settles them on the table for us to have.

 

She sits across from me, taking off her hat and resting it on the tabletop. “Cook Pritchard slips me what’s not had at teatime. She usually serves an assortment, but these are her specialty.”

 

“What are they?”

 

“Scones,” she says, nudging them forward. “Go on, try one.”

 

I reluctantly reach out a hand, raising my eyebrows to her as I grasp one. I’m not one who’s too keen on scones, since they’re typically raisin filled or boringly plain. “What’s in these?”

 

“Cherries. Tart ones at that; Mr. Grimm gets them shipped from the East.” She grins. “Just eat.”

 

Despite my hesitation, I sink my teeth into the slightly hardened outside and chew curiously before blinking in confusion. “Well I’ll be…”

 

She laughs a hearty, comforting laugh as she watches me. “See? Not awful.”

 

I shake my head. “Not at all, ma’am,” I say, crumbs spilling out of my mouth. I go wide eyed, covering myself as I chew and swallow, then shove half the treat in right after. Ebb keeps laughing, standing as the kettle boils.

 

She settles a steaming cup in front of me, the dried leaves steeping inside a small strainer. I watch as she blows upon hers once, waiting for hers to brew. “How long are you here for?”

 

I swallow the rest of the scone, patting my mouth with my sleeve. “A year. I’ll be heading off next spring.”

 

She nods thoughtfully, sitting back down with her drink. “Haven’t you got someone at home waiting for you? A year’s a properly long bit of time to be staying with a family, especially at your age as a handsome young chap.”

 

“Sort of. Not entirely.” I shrug, looking off around the room. She has a few knicknacks; things that seem like they’re from travel. I wonder how truly close she is to the Pitch family. “I’m not exactly betrothed; not yet. I have friends, but only two. I care for them deeply, yet it was understood by both of them that I’m to be spending time apart to stay here.”

 

Her gaze follows mine, smiling as we both settle on looking at the fireplace. “Well, it’s good to keep that open mind, then.” I feel her head turn to me, and I turn with it. She looks somewhat sad. “Don’t let the family get to you. They seem like such frightfully cold people, but they’re just guarded.”

 

I nod my head slowly, attention turning back to my drink as I carefully pull out my steeped leaves and take a sip before thanking her. She grins in return, drinking her own and slowly drawing some stories out of me. I tell her a bit about home; about living within newly acquired wealth and confirming that yes, I’m not quite sure who my real parents are, but I was raised by Lord David. I tell her of my knighting, I tell her of our land, then make her promise to not share the information. She says she swears on her favorite mare’s grave.

 

As she lounges back, I yawn.  Her eyes narrow as she tuts, sending me back off to the main building to sleep after I promise to return sometime within the next week or so.

 

I wander my way back up to my room, getting lost twice before I find a familiar portrait in the correct corridor. There’s only a single lit lantern in each hall, so I struggle to find my immediate way. When I do, I have to count doors to find my room.

 

I silently close my window and strip down to change, a bit scared to take out my quill and notebook at first, but coax myself to sit down and write after I light my candle.

 

My quill drips ink as I purse my lips, staring down at the blank parchment before pressing down and scrawling out my first night’s entry.

 

_“Lonely. Not overly so, of course, but there is a clear distaste from Baron Grimm and his son, T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch, who will be henceforth shorthanded to Mr. Pitch. There is one benefit to this stay, and that is the stable keeper, Ebeneza Petty. Seems to be an ally and friend here. Will keep updates on the daily.”_

 

I mark the date at the top, letting the paper dry before I stash the book amongst my other personal belongings. After blowing out the candle, I crawl under my blankets and try to relax, fearing that I cannot disregard how unsettled I feel inside the house. There’s little to no comfort in this bedroom; the glamour does little to distract from the emotionless cold seeping through the walls.

 

But, alas, knowing I have no other choice but to suffer for the next twelve months, I fall into a deep sleep regardless.


	2. Defenseless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all my years of fighting, the fights never ended as so.
> 
> -  
> Dollhouses, swordfighting, and the inexplicable tension between the blades.

The children decided they wish to meet me.

 

This, apparently, is a great honor, as some of the servants told me. My imagination only went as far as to consider sitting in a room while being overwhelmed by a small cluster of tiny, louder versions of Mr. Grimm.

 

Right after lunch, two weeks after I’d arrived, I was told that I was to have a day with them that Saturday, and that they wished to spend all their time with me. There was quite a fuss over it, making sure I’d be best dressed and ready to handle a day’s worth of children running about. I was told what proper language to use, as well as how to address each of the children. It had the same degrading, bitter taste of my school years.

 

Mr. Pitch got quite a kick out of my training. As I sat in the library and got lectured on behavior in front of children as if  _ I _ was a child myself, he just stood at the doorway and grinned triumphantly.

 

Part of me wishes that I’d gotten lectured back at my estate on how to address Mr. Pitch. No training was set for me to have a  _ nemesis _ on these grounds, and surely not one of my hosts. Alas, he is anyway, sneering down upon me and marking barking commentary at his will. If I could count the times that I wished I could punch him, I would have to take up mathematics as a hobby. Granted, I’ve known since long ago that if a feud between our families were to break out, he and I would be facing one another until at least one of our ends. Lord David comments on it on the occasion that the Pitch family name is brought up, but I had never assumed our rivalry would start so soon after meeting him.

 

Soon following the lessons came the day that they wished to meet me. I was set to greet them at half past noon in the front parlor, where they would take me where they please. While I’d been told about each of them, no amount of training could have prepared me for their genuine personalities.

 

Something I’d learned after I’d grown older is children are still children, no matter what class. Rambunctious and loud, they are, and curious to no length. Thus, as they’re being brought in by their nanny, I’m immediately bombarded with high-pitched questions and bodies thrown at my feet.

 

“Sir Snow! Sir Snow!” one of the twins (I’m suspecting Annabell; I was told she’s the one with the shorter hair) cries happily, pulling on my pant let. The other twin grabs my hand (and I’ll assume this one is Mary, then), tugging me towards the centre of the room as she starts joining her sister’s chanting. The poor youngest one, the boy, is quite shy, sticking beside the nanny. Meanwhile, the fourth child, Mordelia, comes up to greet me.

 

“Mordelia,” she says shortly and politely, extending a hand. Clearly, she’s the most grown of the group; 10 years old and looking like an exact copy of her mother, just with dark hair of her father. The twins have the same blonde heads, but their face has a similar longness to their father’s. They’re both five, and as I’ve learned, Mary was born first. This leaves the three year old Benjamin, who’s too young to really relate fully to either parent, except for his eyes. They're the same piercing grey of his father and older brother.

 

I take Mordelia’s hand with the one not being dragged by Mary, shaking the older girl's hand briefly before we both drop grip. “Simon Snow,” I say, pausing slightly before turning my head and grinning over at Benjamin while waving. He simply holds their nanny tighter.

 

The twins keep tugging me in each direction until I settle a hand on each of their heads, ruffling their hair. “Hello to both of you two.” They stop trying to pull me around, peering up and giggling as they look back at each other.

 

The nanny walks Benjamin over as Mordelia crosses her arms, looking me up and down curiously as I kneel down to say hello.

 

“Well, Sir Snow,” the young girl says confidently as I take Benjamin’s hand, grinning at him then peering up at her. Despite having her mother’s face, she has the same quirking brow as her brother. I’m starting to worry there’s a bit more in common in those two than I’d care to interact with. “We’ve been told you’re good with a sword. Is that right?”

 

“I’d like to say it is,” I chuckle politely, letting Benjamin hold my fingers comfortably.

 

Mordelia nods curtly, a smirk growing on her face. “Do you think you could show us?”

 

My jaw, in an undignified fashion, falls open as I being to rethink my answer. With an unsure glance to the nanny, who simply raises her brows at me as if to say it’s my answer, I gulp down and shrug. It isn’t the brightest idea to bring swords into a room with children, but if they wish to… “Perhaps just with you before tea.”

 

She squints at me, nose wrinkling as she stares me down before nodding again. “Okay. Fair.”

 

The twins take that as their opportunity to pester for more.

 

“Would you like to come to the playroom, Sir Snow?” Annabell asks. “We can show you the toys!”

 

“I’d be delighted,” I say graciously, relieved that there’s a safer option of participation with these children over weaponry. In a blink, the two of them rush off towards what I’ll assume is the playroom, followed by Mordelia’s confident swaying walk. Their nanny shakes her head towards them, smiling and bowing her head to me as I stand. Benjamin doesn’t let go, so I don’t shoo him off either.

 

Their nanny nods her head, “Come along, I’ll show you.”

 

We take a slow-paced walk towards the room, as Benjamin is suddenly glued to my side and walking at the speed of a snail. It’s quite endearing, really; it’s incredibly relieving to have a minute to collect my mind before being thrown back into the storm.

 

The three of us step into the room, greeted by the twins laughing over their dollhouse while Mordelia comfortably sits in a rocking chair, playing with an abacus. The brain on that child already terrifies me.

 

Once again, I’m dragged off by the twins, getting me play along in their dollhouse. I allow Benjamin to sit upon my lap, crossing my legs so he has a proper seat as I follow along. The girls have quite an active imagination, telling me a whole story that I’m told to join in the actions. Apparently, dolls can have affairs.

 

Why five year olds know what affairs are is beyond me, but it’s quite humorous to listen to.

 

Three o’clock chimes and their nanny interrupts us, smiling down upon the girls as Benjamin yawns in my lap. Must be their naptime.

 

“Say good day to Sir Snow,” she muses, taking their hands as they haul themselves up to stand. In unison, they say good day to me. The nanny picks Benjamin up right from my lap, nodding to me before leading the few off to their chambers.

 

Of course, Mordelia is quick to pester me.

 

“Are you going to show me how to sword fight now, Sir Snow?” She’s grinning as I turn, nose upright in the air. I grab onto the nearby stool, standing myself up and dusting my hands despite there being no debris. As I’m standing, she’s already dashing to my side and tugging on my hand to lead her off.

 

I reluctantly nod, exhaling slowly. “Yes, of course,” I say, attempting to make make my voice soft. She smiles, pulling my hand again until I start walking.

 

She’s practically two steps ahead of me at all times, leading me along to the bottom floor. We make a stop in the armoury, where I pick up two fencing swords as well as a proper one. Forgoing the outfits seems only right, as there only seems to be one for the older members of the family and guests. We continue on from there, heading out towards the back, open yard. A few servants rush out with us, clearing off a table and a few chairs as I take off my jacket and set it aside.

 

I pass Mordelia a fencing sword, the one with the bluntest tip, as I carefully hold the other. She beams at me, testing a wave or two with it before poking my chest.

 

“What is there to do with this? She asks, raising a damned brow at me before poking my chest again.

 

“Well,” I begin, taking a step back and resting my left arm behind my back. “With quite simple motions.” I show her an easier movement, letting her try a few times before we step close enough to have our swords clash.

 

She follows through, hitting her’s against mine in defense before squealing gleefully. After a few more waves, she demands to be shown the next few movements.

 

We go through a few brief yet helpful movements, leading to her laugh happily with each success.

 

“Oh Sir Snow, you  _ must _ give me more lessons this summer!” She beams, clashing her sword into mine.

 

“Sir Snow giving you lessons?” taunts a hauntingly familiar voice, stepping out of the house. Our heads turn in unison to face Mr. Pitch as he unsheathes a sword and cocks a brow at me. “Come now, Mordelia, why have Sir Snow teach you when I could do it anytime?”

 

“Because he knows what he’s doing,” she snuffs, briefly sticking a tongue at her half brother.

 

He snorts in return, maintaining the dreadful look of superiority towards me. “I bet I could beat Sir Snow in a sword fight any day.”

 

Mordelia shoves her nose up more at Mr. Pitch. “I’d like to see you try.”

 

I smirk a bit, biting my bottom lip and nodding my head up to the Pitch boy. “I think I would too.”

 

He hums at the challenge, rubbing his chin and doing a once over of me. I truly wish he didn’t do that; with each glance, I feel more and more like I’m being observed by a ruthless judge. It’s like nobody’s stared at me before, or no other opinion has been present before his. It sets my skin ablaze.

 

“Alright, Snow,” he mocks, lip upturning to a smirk as his sword waves. “Try me.”

 

I swap out my fencing sword for the proper one, weighing it a bit in my hand. It feels quite different than my typical one; too heavy at the hand, and overly decorative there too, It’ll do, though. I doubt Mr. Pitch will allow me to run off to grab my own, at this point.

 

Mordelia huffs. “Can I join..?”

 

“No, this it too dangerous,” Mr. Pitch says sharply, cleaning his blade with a handkerchief. She grimaces at that, pouting and looking at me. I shrug and nod towards Mr. Pitch when he’s not looking, making a mocked snooty face for his sister. After going back to grinning, she exclaims that she’s going to go off and do something more interesting before running back inside.

 

Mr. Pitch raises his sword as I watch the door swing back shut, clearing his throat pointedly as he stands in a quite proper position. “Best two of three, Snow?”

 

“ _ Sir _ Snow,” I remind, following in suit. “May I remind which of us is knighted.”

 

He smirks. “Doesn’t tell skill,” he mocks before jumping into the fight, swinging at me gracefully.

 

We clash a good few times, but the handle weight gets the best of me and makes my hand dip a bit, leaving me unguarded and allowing Mr. Pitch to sneak in with a quick, gentle tap to my chest.

 

I glare at his laughing response, playing with the blade in my hand. “It’s heavy-handled,” I complain, getting back into a fighting position and rolling my shoulders. He just laughs harder, stretching his neck before settling into position and staring down onto me.

 

“A good fighter should always know how to fight, no matter who’s sword he’s holding,” he jabs, hitting his blade against mine in a properly loud  _ clank _ of metals.

 

We fall in step with each other, dancing about the space for a minute or so. His moves are ridiculously fluid, as if he were an acrobat taking a swing at fighting as well. Nevertheless, he has enough applicable skill and coordination to fight back to a decent, yet not perfect, level. It doesn’t take forever before I find my in and gently prod the dull tip of my blade at his chest. He sneers at my win. 

 

“Two of three,” he bitterly reminds, pausing the match to step aside and remove his waistcoat as well. I watch as his shirt flows in the  early summer wind, arm sweeping over his sweat gleaming forehead. It’s transfixing; he looks like he belongs in a marble carving, or as a fine oil painting depicting the Ancient Greek Gods living among us powerless men. Of all, he'd be Hades, and I suppose that makes me Ares.

 

He catches my eyes and, at first, seems taken back before his lip tugs into a smug smile. I snap out of it, glaring at him and giving my sword a quick roll in the hand. “Two of three,” I answer, leaping back into the loud, aggressive clashing of our swords. We draw closer this time, fighting more into personal space as our blades scrape.

 

I can feel his breath puffing as my skin drips away beads of my sweat. “You fight like you’ve never had to,” I grit, trying to force him off my sword as they clash and stay together. He pulls back, stepping away as he glances over me briefly.

 

“Your hits are like your mind,” he snaps back, taking a swing at me. I hit back as he raises a brow and finishes. “Dull.”

 

I glare back and take a few more aggressive swipes at him as I huff out another insult. “If you had to fight for a courtship, expect the other suitor to win.”  _ Crash _ . “Never get into a fight with an army--”  _ clank _ “--because you’ll be dead in seconds.”  _ Scrape _ . “What are you, a ballerina?”

 

He smirks as I say my last word and takes my moment of mockery as an opportunity, leaping forward and jabbing his weak blade at my chest. It rests there painlessly as my jaw hangs open in frustration over his actions. He simply grins and slowly drags the blade up, letting it fall onto the bare skin of my neck. My Adam's apple bobs as I swallow, feeling the cold metal trail upwards and touch the bottom of my chin. It lifts, my gaze keeping upon his as I stare through my eyelashes.

 

My breath stays ragged, eyes pointing daggers at his as my chest heaves.

 

“Careful Snow,” He whispers, stepping closer and lifting the sword with him so that my head stays tilted up to him. We’re within breathing space again and I can feel his body heat radiating off of him in shocking, flame-like licks. “Might want to keep your wits about you on these grounds. It’s not your precious safety net anymore.”

 

His sword drops to his side, but my chin doesn’t dare to move as we keep eye contact for an extended minute, panting the same air aggressively towards each other. I feel something close in on my chest--his palm--and then I feel a soft shove. Stumbling back, I watch as Mr. Pitch keeps his daunting smirk as he saunters off, practice sword in hand. His arm reaches out and nonchalantly grabs his waistcoat off the side of a chair as he steps back inside the house.

 

My hand flies up absentmindedly to the spot he’d just had his, gasping at the cloth and skin he’d just held. Mind racing and breath still barely catching, I stumble toward my suit jacket and the left fencing sword while not breaking my attention with the door he’d just left through.

 

In all my years of fighting, the fights never ended as so. It makes me mull over it, grabbing at meaning and trying to define what we’d just done.

 

I skip tea graciously, changing into less sweat-penetrated clothes and take a late afternoon stroll through the garden to clear my head before dinner.

 

We don’t look at each other while we eat, nor do we look as we part that evening.

 

As I’m dipping my quill into my ink pot, eyes watching the shadows of the flame dance upon the tabletop, I continue to get lost within the moment we’d held. It latches onto the front of my brain, spinning around and dipping into all my known knowledge.

 

_ What does this mean? _

 

I stare at my paper, hand quivering in the slightest before the ink touches down onto it, scrawling out a quick message.

 

_ “Mr. Pitch and I are deeper enemies than what was previously anticipated.” _


	3. Waterfright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He catches my gaze, head tilting upward as his lips pull into his devilish smirk. “Sir Snow,” he draws out my name, spilling like molten gold from his lips. “Keep your eyes on me and I’ll drown you in a flash.”
> 
> -
> 
> A beach day goes slightly awry, leaving Sir Snow curious as to where he and Mr. Pitch stand.

Eventually, the initial tension of the fight melts away. I’d say that it’s due to the previously budding resentment building between us making the fight feel somewhat natural, but it’s much more reasonable to say that it was the exhaustion of avoidance of one another.

 

We’re still at each other’s throats, of course. That, I’m sure, is not to stop.

 

Even as I raise my head, hearing a knock on the second floor parlor room door frame, I see that Mr. Pitch is standing and sneering pompously onto me. “I’ve come to  _ reluctantly _ invite you with us to our beach outing,” he mulls, words dragging out of him as if it’s torturous to spit them towards me.

 

I’m quite astonished by the offer, slowly lowering my book as I glance around. I see no trick; no gleaming knife in his hands as a showing that it’s a murderous plot all along. It’s clearly out of courtesy towards me, the guest.

 

“Actually,” I say, closing the book in my hands and, in one fluid motion, tucking it under my arm. “I’d be delighted to join. When does the carriage leave?”

 

“Eleven.”

 

I allow myself to smile at him, nodding briefly as I stand and button my jacket. “Tell your father I’ll be joining, then.” As he rolls his eyes and starts to turn, I peep up a finishing “Will there be sandwiches?” To that, he scoffs and stomps off wordlessly.

 

I still wonder if there’s going to be sandwiches.

 

Thankfully, as we’re packing into carriages, I see the sandwich platter and feel myself exhale in relief. That relief disappears the moment Mr. Pitch slides into the carriage beside me, dragging his eyes over me before letting out a disgusted scoff.

 

“Snow.”

 

“Mr. Pitch.”

 

His hands fold on his lap, gaze drifting out the window as he sits in resentful silence  letting us ignore each other entirely as the short journey begins. On the occasion that I feel a slight prickle of discomfort, I turn my head and catch him steal a quick glance at me, attention turned towards me and combing over my figure. To these moments, I return a scoffed clearing of my throat and rolled eyes as I can barely remove my gaze from him. We remain looking over one another once, sizing each other up in starched stiffened air.

 

We’re still glaring at each other as the carriage finally pulls to a stop, forcing our tension-filled staring contest apart and out of the tight, confined space.

 

I step down and out, lowering my hat back onto my head and blocking some of the sun’s burning rays.

 

“Are you joining us in the water, Sir Snow?” Mrs. Grimm humors, sending a toothy grin aside to me as she ties her elongated brimmed hat onto her chin. Her hand grazes her husbands arm, holding him back for the brief second as I stand, overlooking the ocean. The servants bustle around us, rushing to set up chairs to lounge in and umbrellas to sit under.

 

Waving a hand, I hold the book I’d intended to take some time to read close to my chest. “Perhaps later. I wished to get some open air reading, first.” They shrug in disregard, going off towards the tents that the servants dragged up for changing.

 

I settle, removing my shoes and hiking up my trousers up to my knees as to not ruin them. The chair I sit down onto is close enough for the waves to lap up onto my feet. The lingering silence of the ocean washing up to shore is cut by the chatter of The Grimms, making their way towards the water as the glaring light of the sun quickly gets blocked my a figure behind me. I snap around, squinting in frustration as I frown and see who’s approached.

 

He snickers behind me, bending over my shoulder to peer onto the page. I snap it shut on him. “What do you want?” I demand shortly, squinting up at him as he bolts upright with laughter.

 

“Scared to join us?” He taunts, moving to step in front of me as he backs into the water. He stands before me in striped beach apparel, arms spread and, for some unknown reason, making  _ me _ feel exposed in such situation. Dare I say that he seems carefree, letting waves knock into his soft brown calves as he cocks a daunting brow at me. “Never learned to swim, Snow?”

 

My eyes comb over him, throat feeling stuck as I push out a “I had learned, of course. I just wish to keep my book and myself dry, for the time being.”

 

Mr. Pitch smirks at me, still slowly stepping backwards before his tongue flickers out, wetting his lips as a foot kicks up and splashes me. Quickly, my hands fly up in front of me and my head turns aside, breath catching in disbelief as the man practically cackles.

 

I squint in a more aggressive manor, watching him laugh and back himself deeper into the water. “What, are you going to come in? I doubt you won’t sink first.”

 

I gawk at his dare, remaining absolutely flabbergasted for a long moment before I slap my hands down onto the arms of my chair. Standing up, I glance around for the changing rooms and (guiltily) demand for a suit to change into from the servant with my bag. After the fastest change I’ve done in what feels like years, I stomp out in my beachwear and spot Baz off in the drifting waves of water.

 

As I step in, it shocks me as colder than expected. Huffing out a breath or two, I manage to wade in up to my knees. That’s when he spots me and hits me with a splash of salty water, laughing as I gasp and tense up. “Afraid to come in more?”

 

“I’m afraid of nothing,” I hiss back, bending down and scooping a handful of the brined water before tossing it towards his face. He turns away, looking back with a glare and pushing a wave at me, tackling my legs and submerging me under briefly. I manage to drag myself back up, huffing out shocked grabs for air.

 

Looking awfully pleased with himself, he backs off a little with hands raised into the air as he stands. “Not fully afraid of nothing, then.”

 

“I’m not afraid of water,” I bite back, staying under in avoidance of the freezing chill of wind. “Simply surprised as the temperature of the water.”

 

His swimsuit hangs slightly from his body, clinging to his chest yet draping down at his sleeves and legs. As his hands run up his face and back through his hair, pushing it slick, I feel my heartbeat pattering faster. Is this a fight or flight defense, making me want to launch into battle? I would topple him over, if I had the chance, thus making me sure it's a battle impulse. What else would my heart be racing for?

 

He catches my gaze, head tilting upward as his lips pull into his devilish smirk. “Sir Snow,” he draws out my name, spilling like molten gold from his lips. “Keep your eyes on me and I’ll drown you in a flash.”

 

I swear I feel my bottoms tug, although I might be dreaming of them growing more taught. Then there’s the awkward, quickly forming realization that my beachwear is  _ definitely _ becoming slightly strained around me. Thank all luck for the fact that I’m mostly submerged, and when I stand, the water covers up to my hips.

 

I feel my hands shove his chest before I register what my motions are, jolting my mind awake as we get into a bit of a tossle. Nobody comes to separate us--nobody seems to care as we go back and forth, shoving each other under and trying to fight each other down. Eventually, with heaving chests in a cloud of a hatred-fueled haze, we back off one another and separate for lunch.

 

I practically inhale a sandwich and a half, staring off into the scattered clouds among the sky as the gentle heat of the summer sun beats onto my skin and dries off the ocean’s remains. I change, while the others return to the water, and sit a good distance from the waves as I continue reading my book. After we grow bored of the salty scent and stinging eyes, we return to our carriages and begin the journey back.

 

Mr. Pitch keeps his distance from me, hair still slightly dripping as his head turns and stares out the glass. His shoulder length strands are shiny, spooling off into soft waves as it dries and fills more into the air around him. They’re not curls, per-say, but a dark mass. I bet they’d still be damp to the touch.

 

It rather suits him. It’s much less tidy than the oil slicked smoothness he tries to maintain, which is clearly a mirror for his father’s style. This, though, seems freed. More personal, and much less controlled. I think I’d like to see Mr. Pitch in a looser environment, sort of like how he was before. With disregard to his tauntings, he seemed more welcoming to the area. Laughing, but not only to mock. Smiling, but not only to tease. I wonder if he can feel as free as he had earlier once again.

 

The carriage draws to a stop and we all clamber out, going to dress well for Friday dinner. As usual, it’s mostly silent; the only noise that fills the room is the soft clanking of dishes and silverware. I’ve learned through my few months of being here to eat much faster, as my dinner seemed to end too quickly in my first week. Once the clock chimes, we all simultaneously finish and, as per usual, part our separate ways.

 

I find myself back in the stable house at the end of my evening, listening to Ebb tell a tale of how she’d delivered her first foal.

 

She catches on relatively quickly that my mind is quite distracted, running off with another thought and disconnected from the scene at hand. “Simon?” she muses, poking my arm with her mug as I snap back into reality for the second time this visit. “Well, spill it. We haven’t got a lifetime for you to daydream.”

 

With eyes downcasted and head full, I exhale slowly and let myself unravel. “Does Mr. Pitch ever find peace?”

 

She blinks at first, curious as to what I’m saying before her mouth falls to a chuckle. “Care to elaborate?”

 

My lip pulls into my mouth, teeth dragging along the skin and sucking slightly. It tastes of ocean water still. “He’s such a wound-up young man. Always seems to have order in his life, and never seems to seek out fun and entertainment of his own. It’s always based around some other person around him, especially his father. He seems to overly conform…” I trail, feeling my head spin as I loop around thoughts. “Is he never truly doing actions upon his leisure? Does he seek out--this sounds quite odd, but--companionship?”

 

Her lips turn upward at first, but as I search for joy in her face, I come short.

 

“Mr. Pitch is quite the lonely young man,” she begins, shaking her head in the slightest. “That’s all that should have to be said. It’s quite hard to search deeper into him for answers, unless you seek further desperation for attention. I’ve seen the boy grow, and he’s always seemed to look for someone to follow, or some way to hide himself more. He is, in such a way, the proper example of English suppression of emotions.”

 

It feels like a rather unfair statement at first. While entirely understood, it also strikes a note of mild grief with me and making me want to seek out the brighter version of him hidden inside.

 

In defiance of my own better thinking, I press onwards about his courtship. “He doesn’t fancy anyone? It’s odd to have an heir not seeking a wife.”

 

Her head turns to me, looking quite shocked as she raises her tea to her lips. “Simon Snow, you can’t possibly be that oblivious.”

 

I feel my lips turn into a frown, mouth hanging open as I begin a protest. “I can’t quite tell what I’m missing-”

 

“Some don’t seek public companionship,” she says, voice dropping. “For certain reasons or another, and while privacy raises suspicions, avoidance simply makes one seem like a bit more of an outcast rather than a concern.” Each word spilling out of her reads more cryptic, making me drag myself towards the edge of my seat.

 

“I’m… still a bit lost…”

 

The sad smile washed across her face doesn’t budge, mug softly settling back down onto the wood of her tabletop. “Do you know why I never seeked companionship?”

 

“No.”

 

“Does my attire not raise any questions?”

 

I briefly pause, glancing over her. “I typically don’t attempt to use my mind in such unneeded forms to thinking. One's’ appearance normally only draws my attention when I see them first, or when it’s brought to it.” Which only makes my drawing towards every entrance of Mr. Pitch’s even more confusion. Why does he make me feel the need to care and study his outfits at every change?

 

Ebb watches me somewhat trail off in thought again. “Some of us wish to seek companionship that’s not deemed as socially… respectable. There are some who do find companions, and they hide with them well. For too many of those who do, hiding can only go so far before they’re found. Then, there’s others like me who don’t seek such companionship in fear of any public eye.”

 

My eyes fall onto her trousers, then her suspenders and what’s deemed as a man’s shirt. At first, I’d assumed that she dresses as so through the ease of finding such clothes; snagged from worn out sports clothes of Baron Grimm or Mr. Pitch. Yet, now as I observe her, I notice how much she would present as a male suitor, if women pleased.

 

“Ebb, do you wish to have a woman suitor?”

 

She doesn’t quite answer, staring into her fireplace.

 

“Ebeneza?”

 

She exhales, fingers drumming on the porcelain of the mug. “Are you aware that Mr. Pitch’s aunt is unmarried? The only other possible heir to the fortune, Fiona Pitch.”

 

“I… was not aware, no.”

 

Her head nods, eyes still locked onto the flickering licks of flames, keeping the offcentered pot of her dinner stew warm. “She has always been more carefree than her sister. I know I had mentioned that we were friends, but briefly we engaged in…” She lets the sentence trail. I know enough to puzzle together where it would’ve gone. “So, she left. Unmarried, but close with a man. My brother. I don't know where they went, but they've disappeared from public attention.”

 

I stay silent, finishing off my drink as I study her face while it sits, lost in thought. It doesn’t quite dawn on me immediately to comfort her, as I fear that I would do that wrong (Penelope has told me before that I need to work on being compassionate). I do, though, know of one thing to say. “I’ll never tell a soul.”

 

She laughs at that, cheeks cracking comfortably as she finds my face again. “No, I know you wouldn’t.” Her hand extends out, resting upon mine and rubbing it caringly.

 

Not long after, I leave wondering how my feelings--my reactions--towards Mr. Pitch stand, if Ebb felt the need to share such personal information. Was she teaching me to offer an open comfort to him, enemies or not?

 

Or is there something I’m simply not seeing?


	4. Proximity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Perhaps I could spare a small amount of time showing you the land.” He sounds reluctant, but not protesting.
> 
> -
> 
> A brief conversation leads to a long walk and leaves Sir Snow wanting more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for this being such a short chapter, but ! i can promise that this is the shortest chapter of this fic; the rest are at 3k+ !

It takes me until the tail ends of August to finally take myself out on a walk around the gardens.

 

As tempting as they’ve been, observing them through my guest room windows felt fulfilling enough until now. As the summer slowly sinks into a muckier, more green season, I find myself growing disappointed that I didn’t take the effort to seek out the flowers. Therefore, I’m finding my way around the sprawling, well-kept garden of the Grimm-Pitch estate.

 

As I walk, I delve deeper into the mild insanity that's been creeping up upon me over the past few weeks. Every action of Mr. Pitch feels quite peculiar. Antagonistic, while also somewhat ones of attention seeking and perhaps partially of hopeful bickering. Part of me wonders where our rivalry is headed, as he does not seem overly invested in my destruction, but rather interested in how my downfall would lay out.

 

What that means, I’m not sure. I simply know that our destinies are intertwined somehow, but the way is uncertain.

 

I wish I could figure it out. If there were a way--a secret key or a hidden door--that could reveal answers to everything, then I’d give up my knight’s honor for that valuable knowledge. Mr. Pitch would mock me for that, telling me I made such a stupid decision for information that I don’t require. Nevertheless, I crave it. Isn’t that a requirement enough?

 

Stopping by a fountain, I rest to ponder and look out among the greenery.

 

All I can think of is Mr. Pitch.

 

Oh how unfair; a haunting of my mind in the worst possible way. Is it intentional on his part? Is he somehow responsible for my endless thoughts and dreams of him, some of which including compromising situations? Surely, those are based in deep hatred manifesting into peculiar nightmares.

 

Surely.

 

As I gaze out, I spot someone far off by the edge of the woodland. The person simply stands, leaning against a walking stick and staring out wistfully. Purely out of curiosity, I stand and brush off my jacket as I slowly begin to stroll over.

 

The figure grows in familiarity over the closing of the space; dark slicked hair and well tailored suit. He’s smoking a pipe, staring out into the trees wordlessly as smoke slowly rises from the front of him. It’s devilishly handsome, and overwhelmingly mysterious. It’s as if he were looking for trouble..

 

“I suppose those vampire myths aren’t quite myths at all,” I joke, walking up behind him with my hands tucked into the pockets of my trousers. He whips around, narrowing his eyes at me for a lingering second before his body rotates back towards the trees.

 

“I didn’t quite think you occupied yourself with such invasive nonsense, Sir Snow,” he says back. While he barks it in a typical, condescending tone, there’s the slightest hint of sadness in his voice.

 

My foot lands down, snapping a twig. He flinches, but doesn’t turn.

 

Frozen in time and staying behind him, I watch the smoke trickle up into the air as he peers out into the slowly swaying leaves handing to unsteady branches. “They’re all an unfair commentary. My injury shouldn’t be mocked as so.”

 

My heart picks up guiltily, mouth hanging open as he bares himself and his expressions to me. As if time were slowing, his body rotates back to half-facing me as he stares. If he were staring at my chest, it’d explode.

 

“I-I didn’t realize,” I blubber, hand flying up to run across my jaw and chin as I rub. “I’d assumed they were only jokes…”

 

“Jokes can be harmful.” He shifts his weight between feet, eyes locking back forward.

 

Hesitantly, I step closer and wait for him to respond with a biting remark, but he simply stays silent. Fearfully, I continue onwards until I’m standing beside him and overlooking his profile. He doesn’t dare move his gaze, steadily observing the land in front of him.

 

“The injury was unfortunate enough to be so close to my neck; I should have bled out, if it weren’t for quick attention. I’m aware of my scars, but they only serve as reminders to be careful with others.”

 

My eyes follow the rise and fall of his pipe, breath struggling to come out normally. A swirling anxiety settles in my throat, lodging it and making me nauseous over my accusations. “I’m not entirely sure the rumors are based on your injury, Mr. Pitch. Rather, I think they’re based on your appearance.”

 

Moments pass before his lip curls up and eyes fall shut. “What do you mean by that, Sir Snow?”

 

“I mean,” I quickly try to cover, “your… appearance. It follows that of classic bloodsucker’s tales. Not that you _ look _ like you drink blood, but rather your…”  _ Will I get murdered if I continue? _ “Stature and air that you hold yourself in.”

 

“Stature?”

 

“I--your-”

 

His laugh cuts me short. “Stop wasting air, Snow, or else there won’t be some left for the rest of us.” He offers his pipe, and I politely decline. “You can stop your entire explanation. I understood your intent long ago, I just enjoy watching you struggle.”

 

His confession hurts in an odd way, as if I wished he enjoyed something else about me.

 

We stand in silence, heads turned away from each other as I gather the courage to break our invisible walls. They’re much more reinforced than I’d imagined; anything to get through to him would take an axe, a flame, and patience.

 

I’m terrible with patience.

 

“I… never quite got a full tour of the grounds,” I start, eyes dragging down to my feet as my boot digs into the mildly muddy ground in front of us. “For months I’ve been wishing to see the farmland, but instead I’ve been left to watch from afar. It’s quite a pity.”

 

He dares a glance at me as I urge him, face open and welcoming to his attention.

 

“Perhaps I could spare a small amount of time showing you the land.” He sounds reluctant, but not protesting.

 

That’s all I need.

 

He taps his walking cane to the ground, offering an extended elbow as his classic brow raise greets me. I take it without pause, hands resting against the stiff fabric of his suit jacket.

 

Slowly, we make our way around the garden. For once, Mr. Pitch takes an opportunity to speak without directing it in hatred towards me. He rather steers his words in the direction of praise and sharing of fondness in his memories, rambling on about the sprawling lavender he used to pick and dry with his mother at a young age. While it causes his smile to falter, he continues on, going on a winded rant about the prickles of roses and the unfairness of their romantic association.

 

At last, we take the path down to the fields, yet he insists we take the walk slowly while he speaks on. Childhood stories, historical facts, and family tradition, all rolled up into his continuous stream of consciousness. By the time we reach the end, I believe I could write a very short book on the recounts of his family’s involvement with local produce in the past century.

 

As we walk through, he stops briefly by the apple orchard and picks off a single apple, dusting it on his jacket before handing it to me without a pause to allow me to thank him. Thus, we continue while I eat, taking a path towards their vineyard. He speaks highly of it all, mentioning that he would run down to the farming fields as a child with his nanny and try to help the harvest, but would be stopped quickly in his tracks. By the expression set on his face, I believe he always quite wished he could join them.

 

Upon our return to the garden, he releases my arm and clearly avoids any sort of eye contact as he tips his head in a nod and strolls wordlessly back into the manor. Thus, I’m left with with the feeling of sinking in my legs and heart, watching him walk away after he’d been so unmistakably close. Briefly, I consider what possible mistakes  _ I _ could have done, but a quick peering at my pocketwatch snaps me back towards reality.

 

Of course. It’s nearly dinner.

 

As in, he and I sit silently at as much of a distance that a dinner table will provide, eating in a stilled atmosphere. It's such a stark contrast to what we had before.

 

I retreat to my room, I look over my figure in the mirror and nervously thread my fingers through my curls, breath trickling out in a nervous exhale. I can’t manage to bring myself to a plausible explanation to my anxieties around him beyond it being my fear that he’ll attack me. Except that’s no longer quite at the front of my mind. Instead, now I think of how he looks in the very slowly sinking daylight, or how my palms grow moist when he dares a glance towards me.

 

Peculiar.

 

The dinner bell chimes, yet I take my time to join. Once I do, I take notice that Mr. Pitch’s head raises as I enter the room, following me to my seat directly across from him. He doesn’t smile, but then again, why would he?

 

We don’t speak, nor do we truly meet each other’s stolen looks, unless it's to challenge them. We remain distant, yet vaguely longing (for, what I suspect, are answers).

 

I can’t take this unspoken back and forth. I  _ refuse _ to leave the distance unaddressed, especially after the events of today.

 

There we stood, in the center of his family’s private vineyard with no workers in sight for the last 10 minutes that we’d been strolling. He could have easily taken his brief moment of the unexpected upper hand to end me right there, amongst a claim to his family’s power, but he didn’t. Instead, he ran a hand along the plump fruit hanging among the vines and said to me (and me only) that he’d run barefoot along the rows of wine grapes. His privacy, while not as intimate as any admission of feelings would ever be, felt as close as skin contact.

 

As we routinely dismiss ourselves from dinner, I catch the soft hem of his sleeve when he reaches the grand staircase. I feel him tense, breath audibly catching in the air as he startles and turns. As if a trigger was pulled, he snaps back to his tight-lipped sneer.

 

“Do you mind, Snow?” He’s a snapping turtle again; defensive and hard shelled.

 

I stand my ground, jaw setting as I lock my eyes onto his stormy glare. “I haven’t quite explored the local trails.”

 

He snorts at that, loosening up as his chin tilts up, quite literally looking down upon me. “I don’t see how that information is necessary for me in any capacity.”

 

My wrist snaps down as I let go in frustration. I’ll admit, my anger flairs enough to startle Mr. Pitch once again. At least he doesn’t run now. “I wish to have someone experienced show me the way. Someone who won’t treat me as a higher up, even if they should be leading me around.”

 

Scoffing my way seems to be one of his favorite things to do. “Are you asking if I wish to accompany you on a horseback journey through the countryside? Do you wish me to request that Cook Pritchard throws together a picnic lunch to bring as well?”

 

We stare at each other in tense silence for moments, simply breathing until I shrug.

 

“Yes. Sort of.”

 

“ _ Sort of?" _

 

“I wish for you to lead me.” My voice drops, wavering in the slightest in fear that someone nearby may hear me. I’m not fully sure of what I’m scared of--rivals  _ can _ interact--yet the mild recurring case of my shortness of breath remains.

 

He doesn’t flinch, analyzing me in his brief once over as I stand pitifully one step below him. He could easily shove me down.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“There’s a storm rolling in,” he states, pulling back from the space we’d been set in as he rolls his shoulders. “Once it passes in its entirety, then we may go. Is that fair to you?”

 

My lips curve up, stretching out my cheeks in perhaps the most genuine smile I’ve had since my arrival at the residency. “More than so.”


	5. Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I laugh unexpectedly, then silence myself as quickly as I release the laughter. “You cannot possibly be fearful of the woods, Mr. Pitch. There’s only animals and insects to be afraid of; nothing else.”
> 
> He shifts in his saddle, and I watch as his hands grip tighter around the reins. “There’s plenty to fear,” he defends. “There’s always the possibility of people hiding in woods, or creatures we’re unaware of. I never underestimate what I could face.”
> 
> -
> 
> A horseback ride through the countryside results in an unsettling outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a *bit* of a warning for soft/mild violence; it's not fully described, but it's written through the POV of someone hearing it.

“Do you always take this long to saddle a horse?” His voice reads entirely of mockery and his face is full of amusement, raking his eyes up and down my body as I toss the saddle attop my mare. Of course, he was ready minutes ago; he even prepared and packed away our lunches in the saddle bag. All that’s left for him is settling himself on the horse itself.

 

I shoot a mildly malicious glare over towards him, strands of curls falling into my eyes as I attempt to look at him teasingly. Ever since my arrival to the manor, I haven’t been keeping my hair as impeccably short. While at home, The Mage advises clean and short haircuts, as to avoid snagging. Therefore, it feels as though I’m involved in a mild act of rebellion by allowing the length of my hair to grow uncharacteristically longer. I can hold it in handfuls, and tug full curls around my fingers, too. It’s quite satisfactory to wipe it away from my eyes--it gives me a sense of unparalleled control. At times, I fear that Mr. Pitch will tempt a pull at it as we fight like schoolboys.

 

At this moment, though, our argumentative nature has simmered to a lukewarm back-and-forth. Especially here in our current situation, as we finish gathering everything necessary for a day’s ride through the country, do we only keep to a bicker.

 

At last, the rain has cleared. It felt endless, continuing on for days and days until September hit. Once it finally cleared, Mr. Pitch made the decision to tell me that he was finally ready to show me along the land. To my surprise, he took further initiative into the situation than I had and actually  _ did _ get Cook Pritchard to pack that lunch.

 

I may owe this man my life if he continues to bring me food.

 

We settle ourselves upon our horses and I tip my hat at Ebb. She's smiling from beside the stable doors, giving us a quick wave off as we begin our journey onto a trail leading from their property.

 

Baz, of course, critiques my riding abilities as we go along.

 

“It’s a wonder you don’t lead,” he quips. “How long have you even been riding?”

 

I hesitate with my answer, knowing it’s a tad revealing. Most wealthy children learn at such a young age. “Five years,” I answer truthfully, eyes drawing down to the reins in my hands.

 

He sends me a look of curiosity, but as I don’t return his questioning gaze, he drops the subject entirely. “Why do you wish to take the trails at all? If you’re not a regular rider, I don’t see why it’s so appealing.”

 

“I wish to see the lands from the inside, not just the observational fields around it.” My attention lifts back to the world around me, eyes following the hanging branches and lush greenlife around me. “It’s nearly like a fairy tale. I’m shocked that you don’t explore it more often.”

 

He shrugs casually, a movement I cannot say I’ve ever witnessed him do. In fact, I’m the only person who seems to shrug as so within the household. I consider mocking him for doing so, but then again, it would be self-depreciative in the process.

 

I decide against it.

 

“You don’t agree?”

 

“It isn’t that I disagree. On the contrary, I do think that this land is quite magical, but I have my reasons to not explore it as often.” He pauses before finishing off his thought, biting in his lip and seeming to contemplate his following statement before allowing it out. “I fear what could be inside of it. The unknown, id I may.”

 

I laugh unexpectedly, then silence myself as quickly as I release the laughter. “You cannot possibly be fearful of the woods, Mr. Pitch. There’s only animals and insects to be afraid of; nothing else.”

 

He shifts in his saddle, and I watch as his hands grip tighter around the reins. “There’s plenty to fear,” he defends. “There’s always the possibility of people hiding in woods, or creatures we’re unaware of. I never underestimate what I could face.”

 

My head turns as I stare at him, eyes blinking slowly as it processes that he’s not making a joke, but rather sharing his actual thoughts. I would laugh again, but it’s not quite humorous anymore. It’s rather questionable, and concerning myself over what experiences he’s had that would lead to such superstition feels as though it would unpack more than I believe either of us are ready for.

 

The silence stretches out, and the only sound between us is the ground underneath both of our horses’ hooves. He seems to focus in on the world in front of us, shocking me into the observation of how hyper-aware he is in this environment. Overly reliant on surroundings and his senses, Mr. Pitch carries the unquestionable air of a man being hunted. At times, I nearly itch in ill-ease of his actions. Others, I find myself glancing out into the wood in silly fear that there would be something, but I only flicker my eyes aside to calm myself with the steadily expected stream of green.

 

His head partially trails, following the life around us and seeming fixated on something nearby. Clearly, he’s lost in his thoughts and finding something to focus on; a furthered part of his anxieties towards the forest and all that it holds.

 

I clear my throat, snapping him back into reality as I insert my voice to remind him that I'm here as well. “Care to tell me a bit about the land? What’s the history?”

 

He blinks a few times before finding his words again. Once he starts, he doesn’t quite stop, rambling endlessly about how long his family’s been there and the history behind it. He’s obviously quite prideful in the the air of his name; those who came before him, and who may be ahead of him. Although, it’s clear that he has a difficult time with the present. Perhaps there’s aspects of that that should be discussed.

 

I don’t push for any aspects of his life. I shouldn’t; he’s still got a barrier wall between himself and the rest of the outside world, not letting us into his fortress of a mind. I wonder if it’ll ever crumble.

 

After a point, we find a cliffed clearing overlooking the land around us. It sprawls out, showing a full view of where the rolling hills touch the sky and sink deep back into the ground. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

 

We dismount, spreading out a blanket and taking a seat with a decent distance between each other as he unpacks the food. I dig into it shamelessly, trying to time myself as I stuff the meal down into my mouth.

 

I feel his eyes on me, making me squirm slightly in my spot as I stare back. Trying to mock him, I raise an eyebrow much like he would. He makes it seem quite easier than it is; I raise both of mine at him instead. “Is there an issue?”

 

“You always eat so quickly,” he observes plainly, staring at me. “Any particular reason why you eat so quickly?”

 

His words make me bristle, growing defensive within seconds. It’s part of me that I’d rather keep hidden; parts that spread rumors, but never get confirmed. Where I’m from. How The Mage keeps me. “It’s easiest that way,” I shrug, looking out over the land as I take another mouthful of my sandwich. I make a mental note to thank Cook Pritchard for the extra serving. “If I eat a lot at once, I can be more productive with my time and get to my next task faster.”

 

He chews slowly, watching my movements as he analyzes what I’ve said.

 

I’m not quite expecting his reaction. “I think you’re lying.”

 

“Pardon me?” I stare at him, expression reading exasperated but body filled with dread. Of course I’m lying. I would rather eat the rock we’re sitting on than tell the truth about my life to my arch nemesis (although, I’m hesitant to call him such now). But, despite my best efforts, he read clearly through my efforts in disengaging the conversation beforehand.

 

“You and I know quite well that you don’t do anything that would be considered productive,” he says, looking bored for a moment before his face breaks into a grin, telling me that he’s simply mocking me again. I feel myself exhale.

 

I finish my sandwich and dust off my hands on the cloth we’re sitting upon. “Yes, well, I believe in fast eating to save time,” I say once I swallow, throwing him a look of annoyance. “Unlike some of us who eat as if they own time itself.”

 

“I enjoy savoring my food.” He lifts his nose snootily, scrunching his eyes and shaking his head condescendingly. “Life should be enjoyed, not rushed through. Luxury is something  _ we _ can afford.”

 

The cloth beneath me drags a little as I turn on my hip, facing him with an elbow propping me. “Yes, well,” I begin, voice dropping to a private murmur. “While I can afford luxuries, it’s useless to me to sit around and mindlessly  _ chew _ for hours. I’d much rather spend such time on other luxuries--more interesting luxuries.” I see his face flush with my words, slowing down his movements to observe my speaking. Between us, his hand drops and rests out in the open. I briefly consider taking it into my own before realizing how odd of an idea it is.

 

He makes a show of swallowing the rest of his meal, head facing me as his hands prop him up. “I’m allowed my equal luxuries.”

 

“And what are those?”

 

To that he laughs, face turning sour towards me. “What, are you saying that you don’t witness me doing anything of my interest within your months living in my home?”

 

“No,” I say, shaking my head in the slightest. “I’m stating that your so called equal luxuries are unknown. I’ve seen you read, and heard you play your violin, but I barely consider those equal luxuries to other privileges you and I hold.”

 

As if it were a challenge, he turns his head up as he grows a smirk. “Alright then, Snow. Fair enough. How about I exercise  _ our _ luxuries and take us out to a play. I’d fancy one this Friday, in fact. We should take a carriage into town.”

 

My face mirrors his, a smile spreading across my cheeks as I nod. “Why just one? We should go spend a weekend in London and see various shows.”

 

He grows pinker as he laughs, a brilliant red complementing his soft brown skin. “I’ll take such an offer, Snow. It sounds like a  _ luxurious _ enough investment of time.” We smile at each other, unsure of whether it’s genuine or an outrageously misunderstood argument turned competition. It’s easiest to go with it anyway, unquestioned as to what the intentions of it are.

 

I begin to consider what that weekend would entail; a hotel stay, perhaps a shared room. Dinners together. Intimate, city outings. It would be a lie to say that it isn’t absolutely appealing...

 

With that turn of conversation, though, we wordlessly agree to stand and pack up our picnic. After it’s set away, Mr. Pitch turns to me and exhales. “If you don’t mind me, I’m going to take a quick stop in the woods to take care of business. Will you watch the horses?”

 

“Of course,” I say mindlessly, still somewhat enthralled with the overlooking view to care to look at him. “Should it only be a second?”

 

“Yes, yes. It’ll be a snap.”

 

I hear the crunching of the ground behind me; twigs snapping and leaves rustling, and it grows further with time. It takes an unexpected extra few seconds before I hear startling noises; further rustling of leaves, muffled shouts, and the kicking of underbush. In a rush, I glance to my horse and grab the sword I’d brought (Mr. Pitch had mocked me earlier for my decision to bring it, it’s clear it was the right choice) before charging into the unmarked path within the trees.

 

The shouts grow louder before I hear a yelp of clear “Help!” in Mr. Pitch’s voice. It draws me in, rushing inwards and slicing anything that gets in my way. When I find him, he’s laying panting and injured on the ground. He hisses in pain, gripping his leg as rustling of the trees quickly sounds as if it’s further and further.

 

Dropping to my knees, my hands search his body to find injury, which doesn’t seem to be anywhere but his leg (except for his roughed-up shirt and trousers). “Good God, man, what happened?!”

 

“What do you think happened?!” He snaps before groaning in agonizing pain. “I-I was attacked; I didn’t see who, but he came from behind a-and…” His eyes dart around in a panic, leg still in his grip. While I’m the furthest thing from a doctor, it’s clear that the injury lays deeper than skin.

 

I shakily stand him up, having him lean entirely on me as my eyes dart around. “Should I look for him?”

 

“No, dear God, no,” he cries, arms wrapped around me tightly. “Don’t be a tit--get me home, damn you.”

 

We’re stumbling and completely uncoordinated, but I manage my way through the woods and back to the horses, who seem a bit spooked but still present. I hoist him up onto my horse and climb on in front of him, which leads to him wrapping his arms around my waist without being provoked to. While I’d hate to admit this given our particular situation, but it makes my skin prickle at the sensation of being held.

 

I snap for the horse to break into a gallop, and luckily Mr. Pitch’s mare has been well trained enough to follow as we rush back down the path towards the Grimm-Pitch residence. It’s somewhat bumpy, and with each hit to the ground, I hear a groan emerge from Mr. Pitch’s throat as he clings to me tighter. This isn’t quite the intimacy of our situation that I’d envisioned, but it’s somewhat acceptable from me.

 

Bursting into the clearing, workers startle and stare as I push onwards towards the stables and house. Shocked servants start spilling out, trying to get an eyeful of the scene. It doesn’t do much justice to us, though, as we need more than rubberneckers to help. As we pull in, Ebb leaps urgently and drags Mr. Pitch off, finding a seat to settle him onto as she elevates his foot. The flooding consists of everyone--the family, the servants regardless of closeness to him, and even some workers fill into the stables to see what had happened to him.

 

Immediately, it turns into an investigation. Mr. Grimm hovers over me and glares at me all accusatory as I'm stepping away. He begins closing in, forcing me to back up shakily and spread my arms in case I tumble. My vision blurs, adrenaline overloading me and hitting at such an inopportune time.  “What have you--”

 

“He didn’t do it!” Mr. Pitch breaks in, hissing in pain as his leg gets wrapped. “It wasn’t him, he rescued me. Leave Sir Snow alone.”

 

I pant, staring upwards at Mr. Grimm as he recoils and stares down upon me before flicking his head towards his son. “Then what in the world happened?”

 

“Attacked-someone followed us.” His fists clench, exhaling through his nose as his jaw sets while he's breathing out something unheard. “It wasn’t him, father,” he continues audibly, “leave it.”

 

So he does, leaving me trembling in my spot as countless people fuss over Mr. Pitch and his wounds. In the process, we exchange unsteady glances, to which he doesn’t seem malicious or disgusted, but rather seeking pity and comfort from me as he’s cared over. Someone asks which doctor they should call, pressing ice to his wound as I clear my throat.

 

“Send a telegram for Doctor Wellbelove. He’s a friend of mine; he’ll treat Mr. Pitch well. Just mention that Sir Snow is sending for him.” That deserves me a thankful exhale from him, face dropping and head rolling down as he flinches in pain and focuses on his somewhat ragged breaths. Eventually, I take a chance to go kneel beside him and look over his injuries as my mind runs through our conversations.

 

The woods. The way he looked so dazed and unsettled while he looked out among it. As my mind traces back, I can’t help but ponder whether or not there was something he could sense that I couldn’t. If my obliviousness was too heavy; if I should have been more alert the entire trip.

 

Furthermore, it raises more possibilities, and darker ones at that. Is there a spy attempting to assassinate Mr. Pitch? Was this a failed mission for his throat? And, if so, is it someone on the grounds?

 

My mind flicks through possibilities, working itself up further before suddenly going static at the touch of Mr. Pitch’s hand against mine. I startle, then raise my head to meet his gaze. When I meet his, he’s staring at me with mild concern as he exhales. “Thank you,” he says, just quiet enough that it’s only me hearing him. At first, I believe I’m mistaken, but the hand still pressed to mine is telling me elsewise.

 

In a simple returned nod, I smile sadly and chew on my bottom lip. “I am a hero, after all,” I mumble in efforts to defuse the situation, and much to my surprise, it works.

 

“Always the hero.” He looks down, clearly still in pain but trying desperately to hold it back. “I apologize for this; I suppose it means our leisurely break will have to be postponed to a more convenient time.”

 

“Suppose I can always go without you.”

 

“You will  _ not _ ,” he remarks, “and, not to mention, that the theatre will be  _ quite _ bland without me.” Somehow, despite the urgency and desperation of the situation minutes ago, I smile at him and exhale out somewhat of a chuckle.

 

“I doubt it will be,” I tease, still grinning from ear to ear as he smiles back.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Ebb at the edge of the stables, by her house. I can’t quite read what her expression is, feeling overwhelmed and chaotic from the moment at hand. The situation was absolutely unexpected; from a pleasant exchange one minute, to so utterly terrible and barely understood the next.

 

I can’t help but wonder if she’s disappointed in me for leaving him alone. After what he said on the trip there, I can’t quite believe that I had either.


	6. Jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room remains a respectful volume, holding an occasional chatter behind us as she plays. I can’t help but steal occasional glances at Baz, who seems growingly focused on the proximity between Agatha and I. It makes me swallow my mind as my skull fills with a slow thumping of rage. He’s jealous. I can’t believe he’s jealous.
> 
> -
> 
> The Wellbeloves take a quick visit to the Grimm-Pitch manor to assess Mr. Pitch's injuries, stirring the pot of unease between Mr. Pitch and Sir Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hngngng i'm so sorry this is late; i meant to finish editing this days ago but. life had another plan.
> 
> for reference, this starts up the same night as the last chapter left off !

By the late evening, we get word that Doctor Wellbelove is on his way, and he decided to be accompanied by Agatha as well. I, for one, am thrilled to have a taste of my home back once again, but Mr. Pitch turns sour at the notion that we are to have extra company.

 

Peculiarly, following his injury, he began to somewhat cling to me (or, perhaps, I clung to him). After he was carried up from dinner, he requested that his door would be left ajar. As I walked past his chambers, he called upon me from the crack to keep him company.

 

“It’s a bore to lay alone with my pain,” he complained as soon as I’d arrived, carrying a few books to keep myself occupied for the time. I hadn’t thought I would ever be much company for him, as he sees me of not only lower intelligence but poor in interest overall. Nonetheless, he demanded that I read aloud to him as we awaited news from the telegram.

 

Before I closed off to retire to my own bedroom, we were interrupted by a servant, bowing at the doorway and rushing over the card. I scanned over it, then nodded at Mr. Pitch. “Doctor Wellbelove will be taking the railway in the morning. He’s expecting to be here by no later than the afternoon.”

 

I watched as he exhaled, nodding and resting his head against the downy pillows before he waved me off, mumbling something that I barely made out into, “Go away, I’m tired now.”

 

At first, sitting in my room in the day’s exhaustion feels as though it should lull me to sleep, but as time drags on, I find my mind growing more and more curious as to the situation at hand. It occupies me, drawing me towards alertness and restless pacing.

 

The teasing. The closeness. The unmistakably soft turn that Mr. Pitch took while we found ourselves completely alone. And, not to mention, his distaste for any company regarding my other life at home. It makes me wonder what his intentions. Is he trying to keep me here for some devious plot and now acting kindly as a distraction? Is he jealous of my social life, no matter how small it is in reality?

 

I wear myself down with clouding thoughts, overworking my mind until the day wears heavy enough on me that I fall asleep, curled up on my side and facing the steadily crackling fireplace.

 

When I rise, the sky is only just creeping up.

 

I hear no noise of waking from Mr. Pitch’s room, and when I peer inside, he’s still fast asleep with his leg elevated and hands folded upon is breast. They rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of his chest.

 

I hate to admit that I'm guilty of standing and staring for an extended moment, lingering by the doorway and watching him rest peacefully. Magically, he's remaining comfortably quiet for once in his life.

 

I don’t think much of my actions until I’m caught by a wandering servant, who startles as she reaches the top of the stairs and sees me peeking inside Mr. Pitch’s room.

 

“Is he alright, Sir?” she asks, voice twisting with concern as she begins to rush over. 

 

I raise my hands up, shaking my head and holding my finger to my lips before mouthing “He’s sleeping.” The servant then stares at me curiously, nodding her head slowly as she backs off, curtsies, and continues on to whatever task she was sent off to fulfill. 

 

The morning draws on as much more unsettling than the day before. No one quite knows what happened to lead to this attack, and I cannot shake the guilt gnawing at my intestines, making me feel lightheaded. I nearly don’t eat a full serving of breakfast.

 

By half past noon, as they’re sweeping away the last bits of lunch, I hear the sound of hooves against the gravel path up to the main house, accompanied by the gentle rattling of a carriage. In carefree excitement, I send myself running out front with a smile plastered across my face. As I’m jogging out, Doctor Wellbelove and his daughter make their grand reveal. They look proper, as alway; especially Agatha. To my surprise, she has her hair up in a bun, which is quite a rarity, but there’s the minute details of white flowers tucked among the milky yellow locks and ribbons twisted around them. Her dress is a soft, rosey pink, with a slightly dropped collar and thick necklace laying around her neck. As she spots me, she curtsies, raising the hem of her dress and revealing heeled white shoes.

 

I dash over, grinning ear to ear as I bow and take her hand for a light kiss to her knuckles. “Miss Wellbelove, pleasure to see you again.”

 

“Oh Simon, you know you don’t have to go through such proper manners,” she laugh out despite the hand she’s kept out for the courtesy kiss. “Pleasure to see you again.”

 

Dropping her hand, I turn my attention to shake Doctor Wellbelove’s outstretched palm. “Pleasure’s all mine. I’m more than grateful that you’d taken time to arrive so quickly.”

 

“Yes well,” he says, firmly grasping my hand with both of his and giving a tight shake. “Always there for close friends.”

 

Doctor Wellbelove has a glorious, thick moustache that takes up his entire upper lip, as well as carefully cared for mutton chops. They’re the envy of my dreams; I wish I could grow stronger facial hair, but it always tends to grow thin and unimpressive, somewhat like Lord David’s. Some say he and I look similar, yet I struggle to see the resemblance.

 

The servants escort Doctor Wellbelove and Agatha inside, settling them inside guest rooms in the same wing as Mr. Pitch and I’s private chambers. As I've been told, they only plan on staying a night or two in order to give time to properly diagnose the injury and treat it as quickly as possible. 

 

Back in the city, Doctor Wellbelove runs quite an impressive practice. Frankly, it’s a wonder he managed to escape it for even one day. 

 

I take the lead to show them to Mr. Pitch’s room, knocking before pushing the door further open. As we step in, his head draws up from his book, eyebrows raising before his eyes lock onto Agatha. I watch his gaze tightens into a bitter squint, nose lifting in the air while the three of us approach.

 

As Doctor Wellbelove introduces himself and Mr. Pitch returns the favor, Agatha and I stand a few respectable feet away from Mr. Pitch’s bed. She subtly takes the bottom cuff of my sleeve, tugging my attention aside while she whispers into my ear. “Is he always this frightfully cold?”

 

My lips upturn as I shrug, gaze drawing back onto him as he shoots daggers in our general direction. “Yes. Sort of.”

 

She head tosses back in the slightest as she laughs, her arm snaking around my elbow and resting casually against my bicep. “Shall we leave you to work?” She speaks up, directing it at her father in disregard to Mr. Pitch entirely. I’m the only one focused on his tight lipped, grim expression.

 

It doesn’t serve as a total surprise when he speaks, but it’s interesting enough when Mr. Pitch clears his throat. “Sir Snow can stay.” 

 

That, to which, deserves him a laugh from Doctor Wellbelove. “It’d be easiest, Mr. Pitch, if they both left the room. Silent, uninterrupted work is the best work,” he says dismissively, waving a hand towards the two of us. “I shouldn’t be terribly long.”

 

Agatha gleams, tugging on my arm as I stay starring at Mr. Pitch. She gives me a pinch, throwing me off my trance and dragging me away from Mr. Pitch’s quarters.

 

Once I’m of a clear mind, I lead her off into the garden for an afternoon stroll, my own hand resting atop hers as it keeps locked against my arm. “It must be ghastly to live with him,” she remarks quietly, eyes scanning over the flowers. “He seems like quite the hateful human being.”

 

I ponder on it, letting my focus dig into my stepping feet as we make our way around. The brief, thoughtless answer is yes, it’s a difficulty to live in such a proximity him. Yet, that isn’t the entire truth; the complexities of our relationship dive deeper than head butting. It’s all half-hearted snippy discussions now. He’d asked me to read to him in a room all alone, illuminated by his fireplace and the moon. There was something I cannot shake about the way he looked at me, eyes tracing my features and I went on about the wonders of the story in my hands.

 

“It’s an indescribable experience,” I say softly, head turning to face her. She tilts hers up, golden brown eyes washing over me curiously.

 

As she studies me, I feel a stark contrast as to when Mr. Pitch observes me. For her, it feels more of concern; as if it’s in the way one would check for an injury after a fall. When Mr. Pitch drags his eyes over me, I feel raw and opened; exposed to him and any thoughts milling around in his head. I’m on the butcher’s block for him.

 

Her hand holds me tighter as she responds. “How is it indescribable? Is it the actions?”

 

“Somewhat,” I say nonchalantly, finding a bench and taking a seat facing the setting sun that overlooks the fields of crops. It’s such a beautifully picturesque landscape. “It’s more of his instability. There’s a back and forth between clashing and a somewhat manageable tolerance of one another, and I’m not quite sure how to take it.” 

 

I feel her head dip and settle against my shoulder, hand stroking my arm as we sit silently. It takes a little while before she speaks up. “Do you fancy Mr. Pitch?” She whispers, barely breaking the planes of my hearing.

 

As much as I would have been shocked to hear those words months ago, now I simply stare onwards and think. I mull over it all; each little interaction. Each word he speaks without poison spitting from his tongue. He’s beyond a puzzle, but am I as complicated as he? The question stuns me, leaving me wordless. Do I have feelings for Mr. Pitch? Surely not...

 

“It’s quite alright if you do, Simon. I’m not quite sure I’m interested in anybody. At all.”

 

Without thought, my lip pulls into my mouth while nervous energy washing over me. The words floating among my thoughts tumble out nearly as if an admission of questioning. “Are we broken, Agatha?”

 

She hesitates before shaking her head, face tucking into my shoulder as she holds me tighter. To an outsider, we’d seem like a couple; to be wed in months and married for a lifetime. But, to us, we’re still children, forcing our way through the world that wants us to be adults. “I don’t think so,” she murmurs, fingertip tracing the stressed pulled cloth on my sleeve. “I think we’re just not what we expected of ourselves, and it feels disappointing to be unfulfilling of other’s wishes.”

 

Her words settle, swimming around my head and sinking to the bottom of my heart. My body goes silent as my mind runs around in circles, trying to keep itself aware as we make our way back inside for tea. On Mr. Pitch’s request, I leave Agatha and go spend the time with him. On my way in, Doctor Wellbelove stops me out in the parlor. “It’s fractured, but not fully broken. He has to stay elevated, and it has to be kept well wrapped, but I believe it’s not too severe.”

 

I nod and thank him, carrying platter with a teapot, a covered plate of scones with butter, and teacups into Mr. Pitch’s private room. He perks up at the sight of me, or perhaps the goods I carry, and pushes himself up to a more upright sitting position. “Ah, brilliant.”

 

We settle together, me at his bedside as he tucks away two scones and a full cup of tea. The both of us remain relatively silent, not seeking conversation but rather keeping a slightly disdained company. I take notice that he, on occasion, cautions a glance at me before looking back down and sipping at his cup again.

 

“Why do you ask me to spend this time with you?” I risk, cautioning a look at him. “I… are we not rivals?”

 

His hand lifts and waves to dismiss it, sending me further into my confused state of mind. “You saved me. This is the least I could do.”

 

“Well, if I knew your company would be my gift for saving your life, I think I should have left you in those woods,” I quip, giving him a smile as a reminder that I only tease. I finish off my third (perhaps fourth) scone while he attempts to appear offended, but it quickly falls flat.

 

“I suppose it is lovely to know that the blame of my death would have been laid upon in the end,” he shoots back, a smirk playing at his lips and his hand reaches across the empty space and nudges my shoulder. “A humorous last bow on my part.”

 

“Ah yes, and then a hanging for me.”

 

“How delightful.”

 

We smile at each other. I don’t quite know why.

 

He yawns as I finish up my second cup of tea, and with a raise of his wrist, I know what he’s to say next. Thus, I clean up quickly and pull up his blanket for him. “Rest now. Do you wish to be brought up dinner, or will you be joining us?”

 

He sniffles in sleepiness, dragging the throw up further. “I would like to have dinner with my company, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

 

Why would I mind? “Of course. I’ll send up servants to fetch you at dinner time.” I drag the curtains shut and halfway close the door, taking the platter with me as leave him alone in darkness.

 

By dinnertime, the Wellbeloves had taken their tour and settled nicely onto the grounds.

 

They look well put at the dinner table, a clear contrast to me. Of course, I’ve always felt out of place at such events. No matter how long I’ve had money, it feels displaced and awkward to be near others with so much of it, and those who have had it for so long. I’m their outlier.

 

In a grand sweeping of servants carrying him, Mr. Pitch joins us, taking his usual seat across from me.

 

For the first time in months, a lively chatters sparks around the dinner table.

 

Baron Grimm and Doctor Wellbelove roll quickly into conversation, going over politics and money, ranging their discussion social classes to travel. All the high society discussions that seem inescapable when there’s two older gentlemen of wealth in the same room; there’s never any speak of hobbies. Instead, it’s simply a flaunting of wealth and knowledge.

 

For Agatha and I, it’s quite the opposite. We discuss home and books. She mentions Penny and how she’s been faring during my time here. Apparently, she’s been set to marry next summer; the American who she has been writing for years and met with a few times before had came to her father in efforts to court her, and he’d somehow succeeded. A miracle on his part, really. To separate Penelope from her family feels like it should take an army’s worth of strength, but it apparently only took an American’s wealth worth, in the end.

 

As we speak, exchanging the occasional laugh and joke, I catch the watching eye of Mr. Pitch as he hovers over the conversations silently. He seems to glare at Agatha with distaste, and sometimes me with such an equal look that it makes my stomach swirl. Does this mean he feels equally for her as he does for me? Perhaps his efforts to push others away are his own efforts of courtship. If they’re anything akin to his means of friendship, I should have all the reason to be worried over any sort of matrimonial feelings that Mr. Pitch could hold over her.

 

I run my mind in circles over his gaze, feeling ill by the time dinner ends. I worry myself dizzy, thinking over his possible attractions and stress over how far his efforts to seek her interest could push us apart.

 

This grows especially worrying, given the anticipation that everyone believes that I should be wed to Agatha. What is this to make of  _ my _ social status? My wealth line? Mr. Pitch can have any lady in the land, but if he picks  _ my _ chosen destiny…

 

“Was that a piano I saw in the parlor room, Mr. Grimm?” Agatha perks up as the servants start sweeping away our dishes. The scraping of our chairs echo around, my feet pressing down a bit aggressively into the wood floors as I rise myself up.

 

“It, in fact, was. Do you wish to use it?”

 

“Oh that would be marvelous,” she muses, eyes glimmering as she grins. “Would everybody care to join me for a song or two? I’ll play Sir Snow’s favorite.”

 

Everyone agrees in a murmuring, overlapped unison. Servants spill back out to carry Mr. Pitch over, laying him upon the sofa as Agatha takes a seat at the pianos bench. She pats the open space beside her, finding my gaze and urging me over. I reluctantly take the seat, fearing that she’ll make me play with her (I’m quite terrible when it comes to music; I could not keep a rhythm if my life depended on it). Luckily, she simply leans her side towards me for comfort while she presses her elegant, thin fingers down onto the ivory keys.

 

The room remains a respectful volume, holding an occasional chatter behind us as she plays. I can’t help but steal occasional glances at Baz, who seems growingly focused on the proximity between Agatha and I. It makes me swallow my mind as my skull fills with a slow thumping of rage. He’s jealous. I can’t believe he’s jealous.

 

Granted, Agatha is stunningly gorgeous. Any man would be lucky to have her company, but why  _ him _ ? Why Is it that he gets everything he wants, and what he wants now is my friend? It’s revolting. It’s intrusive. It’s--

 

Agatha plays her last note, fingers lifting off the keys as she grins mirthfully. “You have quite a lovely instrument here, Mr. Grimm,” she says, voice as pretty as her music. “I must ask you later where you’d acquired this instrument, for I simply  _ must _ get one of my own.”

 

He laughs, sipping liquor and waving a hand. “I’ll gladly send details along your way. It’s a shame my son is injured; he should have joined you on his violin.”

 

In his festering state, Mr. Pitch raises his head and shakes away his thoughts. “Hm? Oh, yes. It’s a pity,” he monotones.

 

I watch as his father sends over a disappointed glare, and I feel the room run cold. If there’s a time to rescue a situation, it would be now.

 

Therefore, I yawn. It’s easiest to make a show of it, stretching my arms and dragging out my pocket watch. “It’s about time to retire, don’t you think?” I ask Agatha softly, trying to help her make her exit as well. For the second time today, it’s Mr. Pitch who answers unexpectedly.

 

“Yes, I do think it’s time for me to rest,” he says clearly, waving to servants for help. “Sir Snow, may I speak to you privately upstairs?”

 

My jaw lowers, eyes squinting as I consider acting in protest. Instead, Agatha’s hand falls onto my arm as her knowing gaze hits mine.

 

If only she recognized that he had been longing after her all night.

 

I reluctantly agree, sweeping up the halls after him and standing by his closed door. We rest in his shut bedroom, all alone with just each other. It’s frightfully disturbing; we had been in the same situation only the evening before with vastly differing feelings. Now I only feel the soft bubbling of rage. “What is it that you wish to speak to me about?” I ask shortly, hands locked behind my back and head leveled with care. In attempts to sound intimidating, I lose any sort of sentimental friendliness to my voice.

 

That startles him, making his eyebrows narrow as he stares across at me. “Lower your aggressions, Snow. I’m not going to attack you.”

 

I pause, swallowing down any caring words. “You seemed to wish to make advancements with Miss Welbelove. Is that what you wished to speak to me about? Courtship?”

 

He blinks a few times and I study his mouth hanging open from across the room before a loud, snorting laugh rips through him. “Good God man, do you truly believe I wish to approach her in such a way?”

 

“Why yes,” I protest, arms folding.

 

“I should be offended,” he laughs, hand pressing to his chest. “I may not be the kindest man, but I don’t attempt to steal women from men attempting to court them already.”

 

“But, I…”

 

“Quit your blubbering, Snow. I sent for you for a simple request.”

 

All reasonable answers to him have flown out the window, along with my rational thinking. Of course I should be answering him how one would be expected to respond; accept and continue, but my mind has been cut short by our conversation. Fast flowing and dizzying. He doesn’t wish to court Agatha? He truly believes I wish to court her?

 

As I stare, open mouthed and wide eyed, he sighs exasperatedly and nods towards his couch. “I wish for you to stay here for the night, Snow.”

 

“What?! Why?”

 

“Only for the evening--I worry that I’ll wake in the night, and if I need to fetch anything, I’ll be immobile.”

 

“Don’t you have a bell? Another means of communication? Why hadn’t you seeked my company last night?”

 

After a beat of his usually cool expression, his eyes drop and his hands fold before pressing to his temples. For the first time today, I see the exhaustion of his injury on full display. In fact, I see the exhaustion of time taking over him; dark eyes, pulled hair. A lonely man in a lonely bed, fearful of his night and the woods. “Please, Simon?” he asks quietly. “I was afraid yesterday in those woods, and I’m afraid again. Are you not one to protect others?” The last biting remark hits me, making my stomach lurch.

 

My words scramble then reconnect, puzzling together as I swallow back my earlier anger and fears. I don’t quite believe I’ll fulfill his wishes for  _ him _ entirely, but rather for the guilt within myself. It was my fault that I’d left his fears disregarded earlier, and now he asks for more help. I can’t turn him away.

 

“I’ll set up over there,” I say, voice dropping to a gentle hum as I gesture towards the couch. “Just… don’t speak of this.”

 

“Would never dream of it.”


	7. Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are far too kind, Sir Snow.”
> 
> “And you're not too evil, Mr. Pitch.”
> 
> -
> 
> A shared moment of intimacy is granted to Mr. Pitch and Sir Snow through Mr. Pitch's recovery period.

Doctor Wellbelove and Agatha take an afternoon railway back home the next day.

 

I wave them off, promising Agatha I’ll write to her and Penelope before winter falls. The rain from days ago starts up again, leaving puddles for their carriage to splash into as the sound of clomping hooves clashing with water. Under the shelter of the overhang, I watch as they slowly trail off until all that remains of them is the road they’d taken, waving around trees and the deep greens of late summer.

 

Before making my way back inside and inevitably back to Mr. Pitch’s room, I draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly through my nose, contemplating my emotions briefly. There’s a mild temptation trying to tug me towards Ebb’s house in hopes of unloading my mind, but I don’t feel like getting wet would be beneficial to me overall. Catching my death doesn’t sound appealing.

 

Therefore, I dismiss the idea and step back into the comfort of the manor. I make my way around, collecting lunch and a few books for Mr. Pitch and I  before walking up and knocking lightly at his bedroom door. A soft, sleepy rumble of “Come in” beckons me inside.

 

Lying amongst extra blankets with his leg propped up in the air, I find Mr. Pitch comfortably rising from his nap while still fully dressed in the night clothes he’d fallen asleep in evening before. His lips pull when he sees me, leading me to believe that he is still a bit loopy on the drugs Doctor Wellbelove had left for him to ease the pain.

 

“Ah, you’ve brought me lunch,” he hums, nose wrinkling right at his too-high bridge. “Come come, sit with me.”

 

There’s an odd appeal about Mr. Pitch being medicated; he’s more carefree. The absolute gentlest state I’ve seen this man in has been this past morning as he got portioned out small bits of opium. It calms his nerves and softens his edges, making him smile up at me like I’m the most important man in the world.

 

Is it an abuse of situational luck? I wouldn’t say so, given I’m not throwing myself at him like a dog in heat. Instead, I’m taming my growing knowledge of my platonic warmth towards him as I force myself into somewhat of an exposure therapy. The more I’m around him, the more my interest in him calms when we interact.

 

At moments like these, when he’s not trying to nip at my throat, I can settle in my skin beside him and read aloud or entertain him with a game of checkers. It’s not difficult to get him to interact, and frankly that’s the richest gift of all.

 

As I go to sit in the chair at the bedside, I feel the peculiar sensation of being touched. With the raising of my eyes, I peer over to see that I  _ am _ being touched, or rather my sleeve is being tugged, by Mr. Pitch.

 

I look up at him, noticing that he’s staring at me quizzically as I hover over the seat of the chair. Before I can sneak in a word of confusion, he slips his own demand past me. “I had meant for you to sit on the bed.”

 

Flabbergasted, I glance between him and the open sheet of empty bed beside him. Surely, I shouldn’t be allowed to join him. “You must be joking. Are you?”

 

“Snow, am I one to crack such jokes?” he raises his brows, an intoxicated smile still sparkling on his face. Given by his expression, I  _ shouldn’t _ take his offer and risk an inappropriate closeness, but it’s oh-so irresistible.

 

There’s a sinking conclusion that I must be absolutely out of my mind, for I’m sliding off my jacket and shoes and settling them atop the chair’s seat before climbing in beside him.

 

_ He _ must be somewhat mental, because there’s an unmistakable hum pouring from his throat whilst he watches me lounge out. In the silence of the moment, his head rolls to the side that faces me as his hands pick apart his bread into bite sized pieces. “What did you bring to read to me today?” he asks, eyeing up the small stack of books I’d carried in my arms.

 

I scan over the pile, listing off the titles before settling back down and studying his movements. Even in his drugged state, he concentrates just enough to gather pieces of bread, meat, and cheese from his platter and eat them one by one. It’s a childish system, but I decide against ridiculing at this time. That’s something best left for a sober mocking.

 

He tells me to read the poetry, attention turned towards his hands as I reach for the book. Yet, upon my return to an upright beside him, I feel the brush of a forehead settling on my shoulder. He stays, maintaining shut eyes and a slowly chewing jaw.

 

I freeze, breath clogged back in my throat as he simply relaxes further into me. I’m only pushed back into reality when he mutters out a quiet string of words. “Why aren’t you reading?”

 

_ Why aren’t I reading? _

 

The cover glides in my hands, falling open to the first pages as I clear my throat and begin to read. My voice doesn’t raise beyond our private bubble of space, canopied by his bed and encased between the blanket on top of us. Within an hour, he’s back asleep, somewhat pressed up to me as he snores like an animal.

 

It’s quite funny, truly. Such an elegant man, but when under a mild sedative, he’s a child again.

 

Given my brief moment of freedom from Mr. Pitch's every whim, I make the active decision to trade out the poetry for a novel to read until he rises. It isn't until hours later and just past tea time that I feel the shift of his waking body.

 

His head lifts from the drool pile he’d left settled onto my shoulder, groaning in a mixture of disgust and pain. I’d assume this means his drugs wore thin, leaving him back to his original state. Despite this, he doesn’t rush to kick me out from his close-company. Instead, he draws himself upright and peers over me as he typically would and clears his throat. “Water,” he demands, voice cracking and crumbling from sleep and little use.

 

I immediately nod, turning to the small pitcher kept beside his bed and pouring it into a glass cup. He nods as a “thank you”, taking the water and tossing it back eagerly. A little dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt as he gulps and exhales, handing it back. He doesn't say word until after the exchange is over, but I hadn’t been anticipating one either. Not that I'd want a genuine moment of thankfulness from him.

 

“How long have I been out?” he grumbles his typical, bitter comment as his eyes cast down in disdain for his outfit. Still untouched as the same clothes he's worn since last night.

 

Out of impulse, I shrug as I keep watch over him. “A few hours.” My voice is purely one of gentle kindness, something of which I doubt he fully deserves. Curse me and my hidden intentions of normalcy.

 

It draws his attention, eyes raking over me judgmentally before his attention drifts away without the anticipated snarky remark. Instead, he settles back into his seat and analyzes me, making me feel like I’m an uncovered crime scene or a fine piece of art. He always seems to make me feel so distant and untouchable.

 

It’s a long while that we sit like this, him looking at me and me staring back as if I’m a caged animal watching its new owner. It’s unnerving, knowing that he could open me with just a gentle crack to my head. Out will spill my secrets, coating us like an extra blanket on his gothic bed.

 

“Tell me, Snow,” he says at last, skull resting back against the headboard and settling there comfortably amongst the carved gargoyles and licking, wooden flames. His hair sticks out at all angles, left untouched after his slumber. It's endearing. “Why is it that nobody knows your story?”

 

“Pardon?” My head draws back, eyes narrowing as I stare.

 

He shrugs in such a graceful way. It’s absolutely unfair. His shoulders drag up, pulling towards his jaw before slacking elegantly back at his sides. “You heard me quite clearly, Snow. I’m curious about you--everybody who’s anybody is curious about you.”

 

There’s nothing anybody needs to know about me. “What do you want to know?” I crumble, fingertips dragging along the edge of the book’s spine as he keeps his eyes locked on me. It sends chills up my spine and makes me want to tell him everything there is to my history. The nunnery, Lord David’s calling upon me. The lies and the unsaid truths of my nature. All the morbid stories everyone seeks, yet nobody's graced to hear.

 

“Where did you come from? Why do you eat so quickly?” his voice grows soft and gentle. A feather over a piano key, trying to tempt a note from me.

 

I should, theoretically, toss myself out the closest window. It’d be much more beneficial, and will most likely result in a positive outcome  as opposed to what Mr. Pitch wishes to elicit from me. The cruelest part of all is that I tell him. I’m too weak as to not to. Listening to the honey-sweetness of his voice makes me want to give him the world.

 

“I was orphaned,” I breathe, unable to raise my voice higher. “Left for dead, wrapped in a blanket and set in a basket on the streets with only a slip of paper holding my name. The nunnery took me in and raised me until I was nearly five, then Lord David went to fetch for me. Nobody ever told me  _ why _ he picked me in particular, but it was me he wanted . Up until that point in my life, I was constantly starved...”

 

“Is that all?”

 

I shake my head, eyes downcasted as I squirm. He doesn’t even have to touch me to make me experience the weight of being smothered. Perhaps it’s the room, although it’s more than likely the truth that’s strangling me. “No,” I utter, “Lord David never kept me well when I was younger. There was long nights of lessons with few and far meals between. He raised me telling me I would provide a great fighter, in case the wealth was challenged. I was always told to never tell a soul where I’m from, either. It always made me feel like I was in trouble; like it was my fault.”

 

“Why was that?” It feels as though Mr. Pitch is the spy, coaxing answers from me. Now, I’m noticing he’s drawn closer, sitting in nearly breathing distance.

 

“Because I choose to follow what he says. He says someone may have to defend the name once he’s at proper power, and that he’ll be to weak to do it once the time is right. Therefore, he needs me to carry the illusion that I’m meant for this. That I'm not hidden swine. That I'm meant to be here…” I feel a hand on mine, and I flinch before registering that it’s Mr Pitch’s. He goes to pull it back, but I close mine around his, risking a glance into his eyes. “Don’t tell anybody--I beg of you. It could destroy me and make me more ostracized than I already am. Everyone believes I’m much like the other followers of Lord David, coming from wealthy families that left them to train and grow stronger. If… it they know I’m not…”

 

His hand squeezes mine, making me exhale and stare at him in utter panic as his other hand raises to rest upon my cheek. As if it’d make it better.

 

It doesn’t.

 

“I’ll never tell a soul,” he says gently. “You have my word.”

 

The constricting walls start disappearing entirely, my focus closing in on Mr. Pitch and his all-consuming presence. It’s as if he’s enveloping me, taking over the room around us and just existing as my barrier.

 

In a moment of weakness, I try to urge my curiosities out of him.

 

“What happened to your mother?” I whisper, staring at him wide-eyed and weak in his arms.

 

I somewhat fantasize him snapping my neck, as he easily could, yet he surprises me by running his thumb against the skin of my cheek. For a fleeting second, I wonder if  _ I’m _ drugged and the view of him with such a sheep’s wool-soft smile is a hallucination. “Hadn’t anyone ever told you?”

 

I take a few deep breaths, shaking my head in a silent response as his thumb continues to drag against my skin. In a moment’s miracle, his hand drops from my face and settles back onto the pillow.

 

“Someone attacked,” he says quietly. “Came early evening, right after I’d finished my day’s classes and took a break to play around in the flower. She was in her study, overlooking the garden. I… don’t quite remember much beyond slashing pain, the stark blueness of the sky and waking up to mum not being there anymore. All I’ve been told is she threw herself between the attacker and I, and she hadn’t survived.”

 

I purse my lips, watching his eyes drop and feeling my own mind claw back to reality while his sinks away. I don’t have much to do, besides attempt a similar comfort.

 

My hand drops to his good knee, sliding up to rest on his mid tight. He tenses at first, and I contemplate pulling back, but he draws his leg out closer towards me after a second. It makes my heart patter faster, throat restricting as I catch his eyes. 

 

“Was the killer ever caught?”

 

He appears shocked, shaking his head as if I’d said something irrational given the situation. “What? I… no. Never.”

 

“Then we have to catch them,” I whisper, urging closer. “I’ll help--I have to. You know my secret, and now I have to pay you back.”

 

“You  _ surely _ do not have to,” he utters back, face contorting in confusion. “I have no reason to share this pain with you, and you have no reason to seek to solve a decades old crime.”

 

I scan his face, shifting a bit in my spot as my hand remains set on his thigh. “I wish to,” I add. “It’s unfair. I’m not rather fond of the unfair.” It’s not a lie; far from it. If it’s right, it’s what I should be doing with wishes for friendship aside. Yet, if it draws me closer to him, if it keeps me at such a distance as we’ve been for days, then I’ll solve all the crimes in England for him.

 

His jaw goes a bit slack, eyes darting back to my hand and up towards me. “Do you really wish to help me?”

 

“I’ll do anything.” I lean closer, feeling his breath on my cheek as he stares at me. “I’ll tear up half the country to solve this for you.”

 

“You are  _ far _ too kind, Sir Snow.”

 

“And you're not too evil, Mr. Pitch.”

 

His tongue lets out and I watch it’s pink trail, swiping against his lip as my heart races out of my chest cavity. I’m positive that he’s tempting a quick word, but a knock at the bedroom door sends us flying apart. I scramble out of bed, jolting to a standing position and straightening out my shirt where it’s tucked in. He raises his blanket up further, pushing his hair back as he tries to smoothly call for the unknown person to enter.

 

In pops a servant, carrying a food tray. “Master Grimm stated that he’d assumed both of you would not be joining for dinner, given Master Pitch’s state, so I come to bring the food,” they say quickly, as if it's rehearsed, as they offer it out to me. I take with a nod, thanking it. The servant avoids eye contact with both of us, rushing out quickly and leaving me to stand somewhat awkwardly, a platter of food in my hands.

 

We exchange a glance, me standing and staring as he sits on the far opposite side of his bed. I nearly go to sit somewhere else, but he keeps the space beside him empty as an invitation that I can’t quite refuse.

 

In silence, we sit to eat side-by-side, nearly like we’d been doing such for years. It’s inescapably intimate; a couple’s dinner in a couple’s bed, if an illustration seeked fit to capture the moment. In the depths of my mind, I ponder what it'd be like to have a couple's dinner.

 

I clean up after us, leaving the tray outside the room and finding the instructions for Mr. Pitch's nighttime dose of the pain reliever. I settle beside him on the bed, filling his cup with the required amount of drops before he sips it down. His nose scrunches before he exhales and relaxes slightly, eyes trailing me as I reach out to grab my shoes and jacket to retire off to bed.

 

He stops me with a cleared throat and side-casted glance. “Sir Snow…” he begins. “Don’t find me rude, but… I did feel quite a bit calmer with you in the room. Of course, I would defend myself if I weren’t injured, but-”

 

“Do you wish me to stay in the room once more?”

 

“Until I’m sure I’m safe,” he adds, head bobbing once in a nod. Of course, I won’t refuse.

 

I leave my shoes and jacket, going to collect my blanket for the sofa as he stares. It leaves me unnerved and sends me spinning back to face him. He cuts in, once again, before I can. “My bed… is quite large…”

 

I shock, narrowing my eyes at him as I shift from foot to foot. “Mr. Pitch, are you not afraid of someone seeing us? Two men laying beside each other, is that not something to arouse suspicion?”

 

His hand dismissively waves, nose turning up. “The servants know to knock before entering. There should be no such worries.”

 

I stand frozen at first, torn between what’s clearly proper and what I may secretly wish for.

 

My urges win the battle.

 

After borrowing one of Mr. Pitch’s nightclothes, I rush to change in his bathroom and emerge to find him waiting with the blankets turned down. I settle beside him, hands folding on my chest nervously as we stare at each other. 

 

He makes the first move of comfort, hand reaching out and grasping mine. “Are you positive that you’d be able to find my mother’s killer?”

 

I trace my fingertips along his knuckles in the briefest moment of weakness, studying the dips and curves of his face so stunningly close. “I’m convinced,” I murmur, pushing my fingers between his. “After all, you’re too smart and I’m too bold for it to not work.”

 

He exhales out, lips threatening a genuine smile as he stares off at me. “Thank you.”

 

I have to force myself to not overreact to his words, nearly positive I’d heard them wrong at first. After seconds of processing, I find it in myself to turn my body towards him and smile at him. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Pitch.” I press our palms together, feeling his gaze soften as we stay locked in. 

 

“Basilton,” he whispers after a few brief seconds. “Or--or Baz. I hear you trade such soft names within your friends, and it feels displacing to be referred to as  _ mister _ .”

 

I study his face and nod my head slowly in understanding. “Baz,” I test, feeling it on my lips and watching him smile once again, keeping it in the privacy of just him and I. I wish to try it again. I  _ do _ try it again. “Baz.”

 

“That’s enough, Snow.”

 

I wrinkle my nose. “Simon.”

 

“Hm… I prefer Snow.” He returns back to his playful smirk, and I feel like pushing him over. I can’t truly push him, of course--he’s got a broken leg, and we are laying down after all. So I settle for a shoulder nudge, which leads to receiving one back. Soon enough, we nudge each other back and forth until we sneak closer to poke and prod at each other’s faces. Eventually, in silent laughter, he collapses forward towards me with a full faced smile and settles his cheeks on top my shoulder.

 

Despite my best urges, I simply smooth back his roughed hair and smile. “Sleep well, Baz,” I whisper, enjoying the way his name rolls from my mouth.

 

He returns with a grunt, remaining against me as he dozes asleep.

 

I ponder for the moments before I sleep whether or not this is the beginning of our friendship. I think it may just be so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like to call this fic "how long can i make simon absolutely oblivious until it hurts, but like, in old writing"


	8. Unveil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He said he’d heard a hit for Mr. Pitch’s life,” she breaks, cracking around the edges. “I didn’t believe him. I should’ve believed him. If I’d believed him--”
> 
> -
> 
> Unspoken secrets of the past come into focus, leading to the only known clue in the murder of Mrs. Pitch. Their lead reveals something much darker than expected.

“So, you’ve been getting along awfully well with Mr. Pitch,” Ebb says, speaking more into the room than towards me. Sparks burst out from under the log as she prods it with a poker, adding another into the flames.

 

I feel guilty for shivering only moments ago, which prompted her to fuss completely and add to the fire. The late December air drifts through her weakly sealed windows and door, leaving the poor woman to live within layers upon layers of clothing. At times throughout the last month or so, I’ve been subtly sneaking her extra clothes; an old, ill-fitting jacket I’d forgotten about, a pair of thick cotton trousers. She dotes upon me, ruffling my hair as if I were a child and saying that I’m too good to be in such a dark household.

 

She’s not particularly wrong in her statement; I  _ have _ been growing particularly close with Mr. Pitch, or Baz, as I call him privately. We’re not joined at the hip, exactly, but the threatening air between us has shifted dynamics entirely. Instead, we now spend afternoons reading through old trade documents and family records books, attempting to find recurring names. Some have stuck out, but all fall flat eventually.

 

He’d shared with me his anxieties over his title; the heir to both wealths and the power structures in play. We’d gotten drunk one night, weeks into his recovery, and laid sprawled out upon the Moroccan rug of his bedroom floor. He had told me, in a long winded speech, that he’s as equally fearful of his allies as compared to his enemies, as neither are predictable.

 

When I rested my hand upon his shoulder and lolled my head to the side, asking him whether or not he trusted me, he took a long moment's pause before closing his eyes. “Yes,” he mumbled at last, settling my ruffled edges with his liquor-smooth voice. “If you’d have killed me, you would have left me with my injury and fled.”

 

I had no other words for him, hand lifting up and tracing down his nose.

 

He let me brush my hands upon his bared skin that night, curious to feel the curves of his wrists and dipping slope between his chin and Adam’s apple. In silence, he sat and observed my delicate movements up until I’d settled my index finger on his lips. In fear, I’d retracted back and rolled to face the ceiling again before distracting myself with talk of my interactions with wealth.

 

Such events haven’t been uncommon between us since. An unspoken intimacy of grazing touches coupled with long, extended moments of staring. I think it’s grown into a competition; who can breakdown first, crumbling into a newly directed conversation to avoid whatever’s at hand.

 

Whatever  _ is _ at hand? It’s been gnawing at me, making a home inside the carved out part of my brain where my usual thoughts once occupied and endlessly pestering my conscious mind. Agatha’s words ring clear in my ears every time I make Baz smile, even if just with a poorly said tease.

 

“Do you fancy Mr. Pitch?” Do I? Surely, I’m overthinking such statement. Although, it’s rare for me to think over something so tediously at all. Not being one much for thinking, it’s bitterly unfair that the only thing I  _ can _ think about is the state of my attractions. For the sake of myself, and for the fear of a truthful answer, I allow a single repeat of the word “No” to filter through my mind as I stare at his stone-grey eyes.

 

I do not believe I fancy Mr. Pitch.

 

If anything, I’m unsure if we’re truly friends. I believe we endure each other’s company in order to make my time here more bearable, as compared to slicing each other to shreds. At least, that must be his perspective--I would not refuse to call Baz a friend, but I doubt he would share the same sentiments.

 

“We’ve been working together, yes,” I say into my mug, feeling the steam dampen my nose as I tip it up for a taste. It’s only a few degrees off from scorching me.

 

Ebb turns her head and looks over me curiously as she closes the fireplace curtain. “Working? That’s an interesting word, ‘innit?”

 

“No,” I retort quickly, blinking before backtracking. “Well--no. Maybe. Perhaps without context…”

 

“And what context is that?” she prompts, still staring at me quizzically as she draws back her seat, resting across from me.

 

As per impulse, I shrug while hearing remnants of Baz’s voice in the back of my mind, mocking me for doing so. “I’m trying to help him with finding his mother’s killer. It clearly haunts him, and I’m curious as to solving it.” My fingertips feel down the teacup, pressing against the clay ridges and inconsistencies. “You don’t happen to know anything about that day, do you?”

 

Ebb swallows visibly as I speak, eyes downcasting as I finish. While I’d say it’s suspicious, I remind myself that it  _ is _ Ebb. She would never hurt a beetle, let alone have any part in the murder of Natasha Pitch.

 

With that aside, her voice drips with guilt as she speaks. In her typical fashion, tears start welling up in the corners of her eyes, and progressively grow until they steadily drip down her cheeks. “I was here, you know. I’d moved to the grounds when I was 11, invited by the family to work alongside Mrs. Pitch. I’d told you, I’d been friends with Fiona, and our families were friends. Therefore, Mrs. Pitch trusted me to help her tend to the estate, and so on. She called upon me soon after she’d had Basilton, and her being herself, refused a nanny.

 

“About four or five years into my staying, the attack happened. I was preparing one of her horses for an afternoon ride and I’d heard such awful screaming--like the world was set ablaze. When I got there, I’d found Mrs. Pitch dead and the poor, young Basilton with a nasty injury. He survived, of course, but when the investigations came through and they’d asked him what happened to his mother, he was too shocked to even speak still. Don’t think he ever fully got over it.” She stops, wiping her face and staring off out the window. I fear stopping her, so I allow her to pause before continuing to speak. “While nothing ever got confirmed, my brother Nicodemus always had a crowd that aroused suspicions-”

 

“And what were those?” I cut, jumping a tad in my seat as my brows narrow. For the first time, the slightest hint at a lead sets me on my absolute edge.

 

Ebb taps her tears away onto her scarf, sniffling as she occupies her hands with her mug. “He’d always said there was such  _ horrible _ business deals going on in town. I never quite wanted to believe him, but he’d say he’d sit at the tavern and hear men speak in hushed tones over body counts and trading hit deals...”

 

I let a beat pass, mind reeling as I assess the information. “Ebb, do you know where you brother is now?”

 

She seems to ignore my question, mind off somewhere distant as she continues. “He always got into so much trouble, my brother. He’d eavesdrop on conversations he shouldn’t have. Part of me blames that on his skipping the country with Fiona, but I also think he just wanted to leave…”

 

“Did he know anything?”

 

“... he seemed scared for me to stay, but only because how close I am in proximity to the Grimm-Pitch family…”

 

“ _ Ebb _ ?” I plead, eyes searching hers frantically as she appears glazed over and distant. Heartbeats between us pass irregularly before she snaps away and stares up at me, tears streaming more steadily.

 

“He said he’d heard a hit for Mr. Pitch’s life,” she breaks, cracking around the edges. “I didn’t believe him. I  _ should’ve _ believed him. If I’d believed him--”

 

I stare on, throat constricting as I raise a hand. “Don’t--it’s not your fault, Ebb. It wasn’t… it was a while ago, and you were young. You cannot hold yourself at blame for the actions of others, even if the situation is so haunting.” I swallow around my words, trying to push the next ones out. “But, this is important, Ebb, so please. Did you know who said it? Where it was said?”

 

She wrings her hands around her navy blue scarf, knuckles bearing a bit white as she swallows down a lifetime of guilt. “I… no. I’m sorry, Simon. I just know it’s the only tavern in town…”

 

Searching her face, I nod and stand. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I have to run, but thank you so much.” I take her hands, shaking both of them as she nods understandingly and waves me off without a word.

 

I find myself sprinting up to the manor, taking stairs two at a time and rushing into the library where I know Baz is lounging with a book as he waits for my return. While perhaps a tad dramatic and unneeded, given this information is nearly two decades old, I still burst into the room with a heaving chest and eyes wide.

 

He stares up at me in bewilderment, eyes narrowing and mouth turning sour. “What is this fuss about--”

 

“We have a lead,” I say breathlessly, struggling to catch air back into my lungs as I lean on the door. “Ebb--she--the tavern--a  _ lead _ .”

 

He bolts upright, book falling onto his lap as he studies my face. “A lead?” he asks, pushing himself to his feet carefully before limping over and standing in front of me, hands in front of his chest as he tries to decide what to do. “Good heavens, a  _ lead!” _

 

I nod, impulsively outstretching my hands and linking them between his. “Do we have time to run? Shall we make our leave tonight?”

 

His fingers curl around mine as he looks over my face, thinking. “It's Christmas Eve, man, we can't run now. But, surely, we can take a horse from the stable and ride into town after everyone has fallen asleep.” His lips twitch, threatening a smile. “At last…”

 

My feet shift, keeping my balance steady as I lean up to speak to him. “What do we do if we find the man?” I whisper, eyes searching his as I keep up on the balls of my feet to speak closely with him.

 

“We’ll decide there,” he says somewhat dismissively, hands unlocking from mine and lowering as he glances over me. “Do you plan on changing for dinner?”

 

I blink at the conversation change, feeling suddenly inadequate in my everyday outfit. “I hadn’t particularly planned on it, why?”

 

“Such a ghastly outfit for a holiday dinner, don’t you think?” he comments bluntly, rolling his eyes before catching my wrist. “Show me to your clothes; I’ll pick what should be worn for tonight.”

 

For the past months within this residence, the awareness my of social stature has somewhat gone mute. There’s the general activities we participate in, but since there’s little to no discussion between the family (besides Mr. Pitch and the children) and I, there’s no need to try to show up each other. This, though, changes within the flash of an eye when a holiday is presented. Unsure of whether or not we’d have company, I’d assumed my daily fashion would be proper enough, but the way Baz flips through my outfits makes my stomach churn.

 

“Do you have visitors?” I ask the question that should’ve been brought up long ago.

 

He waves a hand to dismiss it. “No.” And that’s all there is to that. No.

 

An outfit change for people I eat with everyday. Just as Friday dinners are, but apparently more pressuring, due to the festivities at hand. Whatever those will be.

 

He drags out a particularly sharp suit (a grey one), stuffing it into my arms before making a bored face as he shoos me off. Upon my return to the room, he’s nowhere to be seen.

 

I don’t see him again until the dinner bell rings.

 

As I take my seat, drawing in my chair and looking over the decorative dinner spread, he saunters in casually and nods at each of us. Suddenly, I feel naked despite such a well tailored outfit, looking dull in comparison to his. A deep maroon, with black lacing details. Every piece matches, down to the draping coat and tie. He has his hair pushed back, and his hat sits delicately and well-framing on the top of his head as a few waves of inky black lay on his shoulders.

 

He must catch that my jaw is slightly open, because he mocks closing it subtly. I blush, barely even knowing that I’m blushing.

 

Dinner is brief and joyless; a typical night’s meal, just accompanied by better dressing and more holiday based decorations. At the end, we all wish one another a good night before making off to our typical evening business. Baz and I find ourselves in his room, trying to create a sturdy game plan.

 

I’ve slowly grown to be more alert while in Baz’s private chambers. Despite the fact that our interactions have been remaining as relatively innocent, I still feel the prickling anxiety that a servant would walk in and have the wrong idea of the nature of our relationship. The way we act here is unusual, to say the very least. Given our slightly more turbulent interactions outside of our private conversations, it allows anyone who may know the truth of our “friendship” grounds to speculate.

 

Nevertheless, I make no effort to spend  _ less _ time with him. I fact, more than often, I spend the night sleeping on his sofa. This way, we would research and work until our eyes couldn’t take the strain any longer and we were forced retire for the night. While I’m aware that my bedroom is feet away, I actively decide to tell myself that it’s easier to stay than to leave the room.

 

I elect to ignore my other thoughts on the situation.

 

Tonight, though, we don’t allow ourselves to get tired. I don’t believe I can, truly; the adrenaline sparked from the new revelations and the adventure only hours away keeps my mind running.

 

I lounge back on his long, deep velvet maroon bed bench, my gaze following him as he paces impatiently. At first thought, I consider telling him to settle near me and speak his mind, but I know how much effort that takes in itself. So, instead, I let him run himself in circles as his eyes squeeze shut.

 

“Baz,” I utter after watching him wear a track into the wooden floors, sitting upright as I speak. He doesn’t immediately snap away, hand up around his face and holding his forehead in the crook between his pointer and thumb. “Baz?”

 

His head lifts upon the second calling, blinking into consciousness and nodding. “Hm? Oh, yes. What is it?”

 

“I believe it’s nearly midnight,” I say, planting my feet onto the floor and forcing myself up as I button back up my smooth grey jacket. I catch him studying my every movement, gaze softening around the edges. I elect to ignore it. “Shall we make our leave?”

 

He nods wordlessly, collecting a heavier overcoat before instructing me to go collect my own. We meet out in the hallway, halfway between our respective bedrooms. In utter silence, we trek down to the stables and carefully tack and saddle both rides. Within minutes, we’re making our way out the far exit of the gates (the one that takes much less effort to open) and riding rapidly down the winding roads towards the town.

 

I stay behind Baz, trying to be aware to any dangers around us whilst failing to do so miserably. He’s utterly distracting; a cavern of darkness from behind, seemingly pitch black in comparison to the bright, freshly lain snow. I cannot see much besides the whipping tail of his jacket and the billowing of his shoulder length hair in the wind, but the bright moonlight nearly turns him blue in the dead of night, reflecting iridescently and hypnotizing me into a trance.

 

I don’t snap from it until we reach the edge of town, slowing our horses to a more calmed trot as we near the tavern. He guides me through, as I’m barely accustomed to the area itself.

 

In the dead of night, the gentle clomping of the horses’ hooves echo down the somewhat emptied alleyway, occupied only occasionally by a shying away woman of the night. It’s clear we’re not welcomed by any person in the town; it’s never a good sign when wealthy men come down in the early hours of Christmas morning. The dawning realization hits me of how much we look like we’re tempting the Devil.

 

Upon reaching the tavern, Baz ties off the horses nearby and leads the both of us inside, stuffing tobacco into his pipe. As the doors push open, heads turn in the dimly lit haze of the room. It reeks of hops, and the cloud of smoke nearly makes it impossible to make out faces even feet away from you. Everything's hanging heavy in haze of the the holiday drunken depression.

 

Confidently, Baz swaggers over to the bar, leading me to scurry behind him as he orders a local brew. I, on the other hand, stay sober in fear of needing to be the defensive brawler for both of us. In seeming disregard to his class status, Baz throws back his drink and orders a new one immediately after, melting right into the scene as he spins the rim of his mug.

 

As his hand reaches out for the second, a deep, ugly voice snarls something from the other end of the bar. He sits closer to the fireplace, silhouetting his figure. In the hidden identity, he still bites a characterful commentary towards my companion. “Why is such a pigeon-livered boy like you here?”

 

Baz stiffens beside me, fingertip still tracing the rim as his eyes remain downcasted.

 

“I said,” the scraping of wood reverberates in my ears despite the chatter around us as the man stands away from the table, “what’s your business here, ratbag?”

 

Without raising his head, the voice beside me addresses the offensively bold man. “I’m trying to find out information. Doubt you’ve got the brains for it, though.” As the other man draws closer, I can smell the wafting stench coming from him. A cocktail of liquor and sweat, seeping into his clothes and giving the illusion that he lives to drink and drinks to live.

 

“You got plenty of years of education, you don’t need to learn nothing here.”

 

“Somebody knows more than I.”

 

I finally grow the gut to raise my eyes, peering up at the man who drew closer and finding myself meeting an unexpectedly familiar face. He looks like a near mirror image for Ebb, yet more time worn and tattered. It strikes me as almost as a blow to the head, sending me mentally toppling back in my seat.

 

This must be Nicodemus.

 

It all ruminates inside me, trying to catch up the situation. I had believed he left; I’d imagined that Baz had expected him to have left as well, but there he is. In the flesh.

 

In a disheveled, depressing state.

 

“Tell me, Mr. Petty,” Baz keeps his eyes focused elsewhere, finding themselves on his pipe as he turns it in his hand and returns it to his lips after swallowing the remnants of his second drink. “Who killed my mother? What did they want from her?”

 

The man’s eyes flicker over him, seeming a tad amused as he begins. “There was a difference there, Mr. Pitch, between who killed her, and the person who wanted something.”

 

Baz clearly pushes back his discomfort, head lifting as he fearfully looks over the man. “A hit, then?” Nicodemus nods. “Who was it?”

 

“You must me mad to think I’d tell you.”

 

“I’ll pay,” he offers quickly. “It’ll feed your  _ habits _ for a while, if you take it. You can keep your facade of hiding for a little longer.”

 

The man pauses briefly, sitting at the bar beside Baz as he orders another drink. After he downs it, Baz impatiently cuts in. “What’s your point in hiding it? It’s done now, it should mean nothing to  _ you _ .”

 

A longer stretch of silence between us extends, and the reality of his answer hits the brilliantly bright Baz before it reaches me.

 

“It wasn’t her, was it?” he breathes, eyes blowing wide as he backs up towards me. I resist the urge to reach out and drag him close. “It was meant for me.”

 

Nicodemus pulls his lip into his mouth, looking at Baz with a shockingly familiar look of empathetic sadness before his face falls flat once more. “I would watch my back if I were you, Mr. Pitch. You’re focusing on the wrong attacks now.”

 

As quickly Nicodemus’ cryptic messages spill out, the faster Baz bolts from his seat and leaves in a flurry of his dark coat and starling rush of footsteps. I freeze momentarily before following out, shouting his name as I watch him untie his own horse and take off, not even hesitating to my voice. In a panic, I shakily untie my own ride and race down the roads, following his far off figure as the kickback sprays more outwardly behind me.

 

Thankfully, he slows down after we reach nearly a quarter of the way back to his family’s residence. I expect him to fall into step with me and simply trail me home, but he abruptly stops and dismantles before doubling over and panting.

 

I pull up beside him, stepping off my horse slowly. Baz startles, staring down at me as I approach. Swiftly, he outstretches his hands and shoves me down onto the snow, snapping a tearful “Leave!” before disappearing into the woods.

 

In a chaotic, disorienting blur, I follow him in, hopelessly shouting his name. Eventually, I find him backed up against a snowy log and frantically searching his pockets. As I approach, he looks as skittish as a deer in the midst of a hunt. He practically yelps, chest still heaving as his hands fly to my chest and jacket, throwing it open. His hands dig into my pockets, shouting barely coherent cries in front of me.

 

“Good God man, where do you keep your dagger? Your sword? For the love of all that is fair, any blade will do!”

 

I feel my vision get dizzied, partially by the proximity and sliding of his touches, but also by the distressing rapidness of his words. In a haze, I slot my hands around his jaw and cup around it to feel his smooth, well shaved cheeks. He continues shouting, crying and begging me for a knife as I shake my head, trying to break through his words.

 

“Please, Baz,” I yell back, shaking him slightly as his hands dig through each of our pockets once more. “Listen to me, just listen!”

 

“It’s my fault,” he cries dismissively, “just please, grant me the fate I’d meant to be given.”

 

“Baz!” I snap, pulling his jaw forward and staring into his searching, wild eyes as tears stream down his frozen cheeks. “Good heavens, I beg of you to stop this now!”

 

He shakes his heads, warping further into an incoherent jumble that it makes me feel as if I’m the insane one, begging for a dagger.

 

In a whirlwind, fear fueled moment of total desperation, I pull his head forward and slam my lips into his in order to quiet him for just a brief second. To my surprise, it works immediately. His hands going limp and freeze against the fabric of my suit jacket, his mouth keeping up against mine in shock. After moments pass, I feel him push back into me, hands sliding up my chest and gripping whatever can get a hold of as he kisses me back with the force of a battle.

 

After a minute or so of rough, clumsy kissing, he makes the move to pull back and practically hyperventilate against me. Slowly, I snake my hands up his front and hold his hair, attempting to coach him through his breathing. I let him come down against me, stroking his head and murmuring sweet soothing words.

 

Despite the wet seeping through to my leg in this calf-deep snow at our feet, I stand still with him as he trembles and folds over on top of me. We stay put at first, unmoving and pressed up against one another. I consider moving to see him, but my mind begins whirling back into reality. What if I spook him into running again? What if I’d ruined our budding possible friendship with kissing him?

 

My mind gets cut short by lips pressing to mine. At first, it’s tentative; unsure motions and little, tracing touches of his fingers finding the exposed skin of my neck. Then, upon my positive response, it suddenly sparks back to heated and fervent, tumbling me back into the blanket of snow as his body covers mine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: next chapter will contain fluffy/emotional smut (mostly as an apology for making this a slow burn, but it'll also have a lot of dialogue that correlates to the plot). i'm not entirely sure how soon that'll post, because the COBB posting starts soon. so either it'll be right before COBB posting, or after i post my entire COBB fic (which i'll probably post it over the course of a few days; it's over 45k and will be split into four chapters).


	9. Intimate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're beautiful,” I whisper, fingertips grazing against the skin of his cheek. His eyes find mine, slowly falling shut as he leans into my touch. “You're the most beautiful human I've ever seen.”
> 
> His cheeks pull out, lips stretching into a bashful smile as his nose turns and pushes into my palm. I can't help but laugh, opening my hand over his face as he presses soft, little kisses to my calloused skin.
> 
> -
> 
> Sir Snow and Mr. Pitch get closer than they ever have been before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s m u t w a r n i n g - it isn't like. wild stuff, but it's smut nonetheless (even tho it's very soft stuff). if you don't read smut, please still read the last couple paragraphs--they're important for the plot (especially next chapter). thank you!

We kiss for a while.

 

Baz fumbles about, barely ever leaving his lips from my mine as his hands ball into fists around the ruffles of my collar. I can still feel the dampness from his cheeks, wetting mine as he remains pressed up against me.

 

As minutes tick on, my legs and back grow more numb as the snow seeps deep into my clothes. In a moment of weakness, I settle my palms upon Baz's chest to nudge him away. “We need,” I murmur in between steadily given kisses, “to return home.”

 

Baz's lips press to mine in a silencing protest, shaking his head in the slightest as his lips peck down onto mine twice. He settles back onto me, and it dizzies my mind long enough to distract my thoughts and give him what he wants. Eventually, the numbness of my legs throws me back into reality, making me I try to stop him again. This time, I pull myself off and cover his lips with my fingertips as he chases back. His eyes don't open.

 

“Baz, darling,” I say under my breath, the palm of my other hand tracing up and settling against the curve of his cheek. “May we please stop?”

 

He shakes his head, eyes resting closed. He looks statuesque; smoother than well polished marble and warm complexion glowing in the moonlight.

 

My lips ghost over his bared cheek before retreating back. “Open your eyes, please.”

 

His lips draw taught, freezing over me as his head shakes once more. His hair comes shaking out over me, framing his jaw in a dark shadow.

 

“And why is that?” I drag my thumb down his bottom lip, feeling his mouth open along with it. 

 

“If I open my eyes, it’ll all go away.”

 

My hand smooths over his cheek slowly, throat catching as my head lifts. Resting butterfly kisses onto his eyelids, I take note of how they feel as they flutter underneath me. While I’m drawing back back, I catch the look of fearful questioning splayed across his face. The realization slowly dawns on me that he most likely believes that this will end once we return. That I'll dismiss myself carelessly, then avoid him all Christmas morning (and, perhaps, into the rest of my stay).

 

I refuse to accept this as the case.

 

“Come now, love,” I whisper sweetly, smiling up at him as my thumb caressed his skin. “My body's growing numb and I wish to hold you in the warmth.”

 

He studies my face, breath coming out in chilling clouds as he pauses. It seemingly takes all the strength in him to nod, pushing himself up and standing shakily amongst the rattling skeletons of trees. I join him, legs wobbling and and body shivering uncontrollably. Despite our states, I reach out and thread my fingers around his before leading him back. We listen silently to the soft crunching of snow beneath our shoes, coupled with the occasional snap of bark or a branch. Luckily, our horses hadn't run off.

 

He begins to turn towards his horse, but I take the end of his sleeve and pull him back towards me. “Ride with me.”

 

He makes a bitter face, attempting to tug his arm back in protest. “Do you not trust me?”

 

I pause, biting onto my lip as I shrug and keep an iron grip on the damp fabric. “I just wish to be assured that you're safe, and I can do that best when I feel you against me.” That's  _ all _ I want--for him to be safe.

 

We exchange a silent staring match before he rolls his eyes and mounts my horse. I join him happily, sitting in front and taking hold of the reins. As we depart, his horse follows us, thankfully.

 

I take my time, careful to not jostle him. He doesn't shy away from holding me, snaking his arms around my middle and pulling himself forward to settle so his chest rests upon my back. I even feel a button towards my stomach come undone, followed by his cold palm greedily attempting to steal heat from my torso. Meanwhile, his nose digs into my bare neck, breath trickling out onto my skin as he melts into me. It's somewhat daunting to try to steer us forward when all I wish to do is turn around and hold him back.

 

Slowly and quietly, we reach the manor. It's an eyeful at night; dark and haunting while it sleeps in an uninterrupted silence. I wish not to wake it.

 

Upon our arrival, I find stables doors still left ajar. We slip in, silently unpacking and settling the mares back before tiptoeing back inside.

 

Baz steps with absolute caution, moving as quiet as a mouse while he leads me back through the halls and up the stairs. We wind up in his bedroom, the door securely shut behind us. We don't dare a glance at one another in our entirety, yet I can't stop my nervous hands from taking hold of the piped ends of his suit jacket.

 

His fingertips glaze over my knuckles, sliding down to my wrists and holding them lightly as I carefully raise my hands and pull off his first layer. It takes me a snail's pace, sliding each button through the hole of his waistcoat before I move to unbutton his shirt. I undo the lacing of his trousers and slowly push his suspenders off his shoulders, watching them fall to his hips and swing delicately around his thighs.

 

I can feel his eyes stare down upon me, but my head remains bowed at his chest and locked onto the slow movements of his discarded wears. Every part of my breath feels thick, and I worry that the walls of the room will close down onto me before I can get him out of these damned wet clothes and warmed up nicely.

 

I find that it isn't the walls that close around me, but rather Baz's hands, wrapping elegantly around my forearms. They stroke up and down slowly as my hands tremble and carefully pull down his trousers. He steps out of them patiently, standing in front of me in just his undergarments.

 

As I inhale, I feel the snaking hand of his push at my clothes, rounding around my jacket and sliding it off my shoulders with ease. He takes his time, undressing me as carefully as I had done for him until we're as equally exposed.

 

Our eyes finally lay upon each other’s, my breath hitching in my throat. He tilts in to steal a kiss from my lips, but the press of my fingers to his stops him. “Are we not going to talk about what happened?” I breath, feeling him sigh against me.

 

Instead of his typical, cynical snap, he simply shakes his head and moves his chin forward, trying to push me to silence. I stop him, blinking in surprise. “Mr. Pitch…”

 

My formal use of his name shocks him, bolting him upright as he blinks at me. “Why must we talk?” he mumbles, my hand still keeping his lips a distance from mine.

 

“Because this is complicated, and I'm somewhat confused.”

 

“When aren't you confused?”

 

My jaw squeezes shut, breath exhaling through my nose as my eyes study his. They're forcibly blank, trying to blink back anything underneath. “Baz,” I coo, voice soft as silk and sweet as honey. “I want to understand.”

 

“What is there to understand?” he says back, walls starts to stack upon each other once again. He has a growing an army inside his mind, yielding pitchforks and proclamations of privacy. “We kiss once, and it deserves the words you barely use?”

 

I bite back my words, slowly dragging the pads of my fingers off his lip. They pull with them, his bottom lip slightly shiny and still a deeper pink from earlier. “You're wrong.”

 

“Why is that? I'm never wrong.”

 

“You're wrong because it isn't just one kiss from me,” I breathe, catching his chin and pulling it forward. “It's two.”

 

He melts immediately at the contact of my lips to his, crumbling down towards me as I catch and hold him up. We sway a bit, standing in a puddle of our own discarded clothes before we make the conscious decision to stumble our way back towards his bed.

 

We knock into the wooden edge of it, then break apart as he hauls me up top with him. At first, we both freeze, staring at each other with wide eyes as the realisation of the situation hits us in waves. Then, without hesitation, we leap back in.

 

The way his hair falls through my fingers is indescribable, and the sound it seems to elicit when I pull them is indecent. Thus, without a second thought, I tug again until he's practically growling into my mouth.

 

We shuffle a bit around one another, dancing an odd dance of positions until we find ourselves in a seemingly natural one. I hold myself above him, pinning his hands down with my own. Neither of us complain, the room remaining mostly quiet except for the whine spilling from Baz's neck as our hips shift together.

 

We're both hard. Unavoidably, and at the very least for me, painfully hard. My undergarments weren't quite made to keep me back, leaving the fabric to stain awkwardly around the blinding rush of hormones nearly spilling out of me. “Baz,” I stumble out, vision spinning as I search for his gaze.

 

He's just staring at my crotch.

 

It'd be flattering if I didn't feel overwhelmed. “Baz,” I whisper more urgently, taking his cheeks in my hands and forcing his attention to my face. He frowns at first, then softens and rests his hands upon mine. “What do we do?”

 

His jaw slowly lowers, lips trying to push out the words he doesn't have. It takes him a moment of unnerving shifting before he speaks. “In what sense?”.

 

My eyes travel down his figure as my chest rises and drops quickly along to my unsteady breath. “ _ Every _ sense.”

 

I watch as his tongue darts out over his lips, swiping the bottom one and leaving it glossy and kissable. It makes me pause and pull on the reins of my thoughts.

 

I would give everything for this man in a heartbeat.

 

I'm not sure where my thoughts are forming from, or how long I may have mulled over it, but it's glaringly obvious and painfully present. I'd let my world topple for Baz.

 

“We’re going to be the death of each other,” he mumbles in all his cynicism. When I search his gaze, all I find is barely held-back tears. I prepare to catch them in case.

 

“No, we're not,” I breathe, shaking my head as my forehead tips and rests against his. “Basilton Pitch, I'd never hurt you.”

 

His breath catches in his chest, head jolting up slightly as his eyes squeeze shut. “Say it isn't so,” he whispers, head shaking in my hands.

 

My lips graze his, feeling them pucker back up towards me. “I’ll never tell another lie to you either.”

 

“Promise,” he lets out, head tilting up and breath mingling with mine. “Promise me this is sacred--this is just for us.”

 

I feel my smile on his lips as I steal another kiss, hands traveling down from his face and towards the flimsy buttons of his cotton underclothes. “I swear on my heart that this is real,” I utter. “Every word of it is divine.”

 

“Then have me like you mean it.”

 

I pause, grin growing larger before, in total disregard to his clothes, popping the buttons off his front. He gasps below me, hands flying into my hair and holding onto my curls as I strip him bare.

 

For the first time, I see the snaking scar of his injury, creeping along the bottom of his neck. It wraps around from the back, traveling forward and nearly brushing his collarbone. At first, when my fingertips graze it, he recoils silently. Then, in the frozen space of the moment, he turns his head back towards me and exhales.

 

“It's hideous,” he warns.

 

“It can't be that bad.”

 

“I'm a monster,” he continues.

 

“You're anything but.”

 

“Simon--”

 

“You're beautiful,” I whisper, fingertips grazing against the skin of his cheek. His eyes find mine, slowly falling shut as he leans into my touch. “You're the most beautiful human I've ever seen.”

 

His cheeks pull out, lips stretching into a bashful smile as his nose turns and pushes into my palm. I can't help but laugh, opening my hand over his face as he presses soft, little kisses to my calloused skin.

 

He distracts himself as I lean down, teasing kisses onto his cheek and trailing against his jaw. Everything about his tense figure melts away as I trail soft, loving kisses to his exposed skin. I use my free hand to push away his shirt, peppering a light dusting of kisses onto his shoulder and clavicle before pressing my lips to the sparse hair of his chest. A moment's pause passes before I take a chance at teasing his nipple with my tongue, smiling as his short gasp while I kiss my way back up.

 

My lips press to his chin, then below his ear, teeth grazing the lobe as he groans and rocks up towards me. “What do you want?” I murmur softly, one hand still resting upon his face as the other strokes down his chest.

 

“Undress me,” he pants quietly, head turning and catching my lips as I grin and begin pulling off his remaining garments. I strip him bare, exposing him entirely and lifting myself up for the eyeful. It distracts me enough to not notice he’s teasing his mouth open for my fingers, planted unknowingly on his cheek. I blush, letting them slowly push into his mouth as he sucks on them.

 

My breath sputters, jaw hanging open as he stares up at me through glassy, blown eyes. “Good lord,” I whine quietly, hand flying up to cover my mouth as my other one says against his. As his mouth covers over my knuckles, my thumb brushes against his chin slowly, feeling the drag of a few days without a clean shave. He lets go of my hand, lips pressing to my palm once before I slowly lower it between us.

 

The only sound between us is his sharp gasp as my hand wraps around his cock, stroking down once before letting go.

 

He lets out another pleading noise. “Fingers--put them in me.”

 

“ _ In you? _ ” I whisper, eyebrows pulling together. “I… are you positive on this?”

 

“Absolutely,” he smiles back, his hands slowly tracing up to my chest and moving to unbutton my underclothes. “Do you trust me?”

 

“More than I care to admit,” I add under my breath, reaching my hand down and prodding at him with wet fingertips. “What do I-?”

 

His hips roll against my fingertips, making them feel as though they're set ablaze. “One in me,” he urges, “then the other. Just--stop for a second.” I do. “Desk, side drawer. Bottle is in the back, not the ink.”

 

I draw my hand back, watching him settle against the bed and stare up at me as I raise, chest exposed down to my navel. He follows me up as I rise, pushing himself to an upright sitting position as I move. He chases me with a kiss, lasting an extended second before he pushes me off towards his desk. I stumble at first, raising my eyes to notice his quiet laughter. It brings a smile to my cheeks.

 

His eyes trail me as I walk over, pulling the drawer out to its furthest length and procuring a dark bottle, corked at the top and a ribbon around its next. “What is this?” I question, staying still as I feel it splash around inside the glass. In the mirror, I watch as Baz rises up onto his elbow to watch me.

 

“Olive oil.”

 

I blink at it curiously, then meet his eyes in the mirror. “Why is that.”

 

He's grinning as he beckons me over. “I studied the Greeks.”

 

I'm a little too afraid to ask what he means, but I take it as a positive sign. Helplessly, I drift back to him, laying beside him and pressing my lips to his. He wordlessly takes the bottle and uncorks it while remaining locked onto me. As his tongue teases mine, I feel oily hands cover mine.

 

He slicks my fingers, chest pressing closer as he recorks the bottle. While we break, he leads my hand around his body and down to the rising of his buttox. I feel around the curvature, letting his hand let go from mine as I lower my hand and find my resting spot.

 

I lay my other hand upon his hair, threading my fingers through the back of his head as my index prods and pokes. Slowly, with pink cheeks and a hanging jaw, I allow my index to sink into him.

 

He sputters a sharp inhale, pushing my underclothes apart before latching up onto me, shamelessly attacking my neck. He sucks and bites, tongue teasing my skin in gentle swirls as I let my finger slot comfortably inside of him. Then, with equal caution, I slip in a second.

 

His mouth falls off me, resting against the pillow as he groans and turns his head towards it. I nearly back off, unsure of his reaction until his hands press to my sides and pull me closer.

 

His hair smells like the woods, and his fingertips are cold against my skin. It feels so odd--so foreign--but I never want it to stop.

 

I cautiously press a third finger in, letting it fit snuggling inside of him as he turns his head back and kisses me.

 

He doesn't truly know what he's doing, and neither do I. We keep testing things as our tongues tease and teeth graze over lips. It’s still imperfect and shaky and absolutely, positively lovely.

 

“Simon,” he utters against my lips as he draws back, my lips keeping at his cheek and jaw. I don't stop until he repeats. “Simon, I think I'm--”

 

“Do you want me to--?”

 

He nods, cheeks warmer than usual as he shifts against me. His hands tug my side closer as he rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. The bed groans a bit with us, his pillows fluffing out and encasing his full head of still damp hair. It curls softly around him, and in the flickering fire light, I can see the subtle bruises fully exposed on his neck.

 

He reaches aside, head turning gracefully as he reaches out for his bottle. As he oils his hands, his eyes lock on me and drag me into trance. It's only broken by the sudden feeling of hands dragging down my length.

 

I gasp, eyes falling shut as the throbbing continues. “Baz, is that a good idea?” I practically plead, trying not to make a fool of myself and grind down on his stroking hands.

 

He simply nods up to me, capturing my jaw with his mouth and dragging it along slowly. At last, his hands drop as his legs lay apart.

 

Oiled hands rise up towards my face, stroking my cheeks and messing my hair as his lips brush mine once more. “Do it,” he murmurs.

 

Strong thighs rise up and knock into my hips, making me realize that Baz is dragging his legs up and wrapping them about mine. In turn, I settle myself in place, taking a handful of his rear as I sink into him carefully.

 

We both meet eyes, my mouth hanging open as he inhales shakily. His hands fly up, digging into my skin and taking hold of me entirely. My one palm stays against the skin of his cheek, thumb trailing against his lips as I push deeper. He groans, eyes shutting as his lips pucker and kiss my skin with unbridled intimacy.

 

My forehead falls, resting against his as we sit, my cock pressed up inside of him as our noses brush. It's nearly too overwhelming. It's intoxicating, even in itself; his breath spilling into my mouth, my hand holding so preciously onto his face in fear of breaking him. It's terrifying. I can't lose this.

 

He begins the movements, rolling his hips against mine as his legs rock me closer. In turn, I follow, pulling out enough to give it the friction it requires.

 

It turns to a rhythmic rocking and grinding, both of us a little too scared to move much beyond a gentle thrusting on my part. The hands I’ve had locked to his bum lets go, palm brushing his prick before I fully wrap my hand around it. As my hips jolt, I match it with quick strokes and silent pants. In the moment, I focus on the actions, on what seems right, what I should be doing. It has to be right, it has to be--

 

Fingertips drag against my jaw, rising my chin up and dragging my attention towards his face. I feel myself relax, studying his softened expression as he holds me closer. “You're too tense,” he whispers.

 

“I don't wish to ruin this.”

 

“You won't.” His lips press to the corner of my lips, then trail towards a full kiss. I sink back in helplessly, my body calming and focusing entirely on him. In the moment, we keep the dance--rock and pull--but it's different. It's softer and sweeter; it's relaxing and comforting and he's so  _ impossibly _ close and, good lord, I'm never letting go.

 

His hand strokes down my back, urging me harder as I thrust more carefully. He smiles against me, back arching up towards me as he trembles. In moments, I feel him come, our mouths breaking as he whines out loud into the room. I nearly pull out after he's done, lying panting below me, but he grabs hold of my hips and forces me in place. “Finish in me,” he urges.

 

I'm blushing like a madman, nodding my head as my hips jerk faster. It only takes a minute or two, feeling his hands run along my back to my chest, feeling my pecks and brushing against my nipples as I thrust helplessly. In a gasp, I'm coming inside of him, my vision going blurry and dark for a moment as I do.

 

His hands hold me up, letting me lower on top of him as his chest sputters from laughter. It's breathless and divinely soft, filling my ears as I relax into him entirely.

 

We don't move, staying collapsed onto the bed as our bodies melt into each other's. Even with eyes closed, I can picture how his hands look as the feeling of them trailing down my back prickles my senses. I'm so absolutely weak.

 

I'm unendingly weak for him.

 

“I feel for you,” I breathe out, mouth only inches from his ear. “Far too deeply, I fear.”

 

His hand doesn't falter, head turning towards mine. When my eyelids rise, I see him staring and smiling, sweat plastering his dark, silky strands to his face. “Simon Snow,” he utters. “You're my world.”

 

My cheeks pull into a smile as my eyes droop shut, the weight of the day laying heavily upon me. After a moment of rest, I force myself up, withdrawing from Baz before finding something to wipe us with.

 

I pour a dash of water onto the cloth and wipe us both down, trying not to distract myself with how sweetly Baz has kept his eyes on me. “You're not tired?” I muse, voice gentle. He shrugs at me wordlessly, a smile on his face that I’d only seen when he was drugged up. “Are you feeling ill?”

 

“What? No, of course no.”

 

“Then why are you smiling so strangely?” I ask, pulling the sheets up as I slide back in beside him. He turns, tracing his fingers down my chest.

 

His tongue swipes out, wetting his lips before he speaks. “Because,” he begins. “I have you.”

 

I laugh, unable to hold myself back. “You sound so mindlessly antagonistic.”

 

“Maybe you just don't know the difference between my love and my hate,” he hums, lips upturned in a smile as he leans in and presses them against mine.

 

I believe, perhaps, he's right. I may not know the difference. After all, he's been sharing at me like he does across the dinner table, and it's beginning to dawn on me that I've been staring at him too. In fact, I've been feeling strangely for a  _ long _ time. Maybe too long.

 

This may be what I've been waiting for--not friendship, but companionship. His affections, his attention. This was the missing puzzle piece; that I love him, and I believe that he may love me as well.

 

We only break for kissing to sleep briefly, yet I get up before dawn breaks to use the chamber pot, and thus he's awakened too. We’re silent, at first. He cuddles comfortably into my arms, ear resting against the centre of my chest and drumming a finger along to the beat of my heart. I can't stand silence for too long. “We never figured,” I begin, “who sent out that hit.”

 

He continues drumming, head remaining unmoving. “Could have been anyone,” he says quietly. “There's countless people after the name. Why, do you know of anyone who would try for my death?” As he asks, my movements stop, eyebrows narrowing and body freezing for long enough to make Baz pick up his head. “Simon..?”

 

“It  _ can’t _ be…” I start, looking at the bed sheets. “It  _ couldn’t _ be…”

 

“Simon--”

 

I cut in, taking his hands. “You know why Lord David sent me, Baz.”

 

He stares up at me, eyes slowly going wider. “You--”

 

“No, no I swear. I promised that I’d never hurt you, hadn’t I?” I grip his hands tighter, forcing him to stay put. “That wasn’t it, I swear on my heart. It was what you’d expected before--long before. That I’d been sent to spy.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” he says bitterly, trying to yank his hands away. “Why now?”

 

“Because I fear the worst,” I begin, gripping his hands tighter. “I fear--”

 

My voice is cut short by a sudden yell out from the front yard, coupled with the unmistakable sound of clashing of swords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe i edited this chapter in school? because apparently my only free time to edit is in study hall. 
> 
> i actually didn't edit the smut parts--i just kinda hoped for the best since this fic isn't betad (beta'd?) bc my posting schedule is shit for this ://


	10. Bloodied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You killed her!” I cry, backing away and raising my blade to him. His expression’s warping, going dark and light and burning into the sky’s harsh background of early morning. It’s freezing. I’m freezing. Ebb’s corpse is feet away, and Lord David is the one who’d stabbed her down.
> 
> -
> 
> The storming of Pitch Manor leaves one man covered in blood and plenty of other men dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know how i have that violence tag up? yeah. here it is.
> 
> proceed with caution if you don't like graphic depictions of violence. if you're like me and like bloodbaths, continue.

The clashings outside grow in anger and aggression, sounding like a storming of the manor in a matter of moments. In a spinning, bury mess, Baz shoves me up. “Your sword,” he orders. Clearly, he’s trying to remain his collected, sophisticated manner of confidence. In reality, he’s sounding slightly panicked. The moment I try to bring up to stand with me, he winces.

 

“Is it your leg?” I say, hands reaching out to help him rise. He turns me down quickly, though, raising a hand up and briefly hanging his head as he exhales.

 

“No, no it’s just… events of last night,” he mumbles, trying to shift.

 

I stare down, eyes going wide as my shoulders square. “Did I…”

 

“It’s fine, Simon,” he urges, grabbing my hand again whilst giving it a quick squeeze. “Just  _ go help _ . I’ll be fine.”

 

My hands hold his briefly, searching in his eyes before I bend down and press my lips to his. For the briefest minute in time, we kiss. When we break, don’t wish to speak for fear of spoiling our moment. This may very well be our last...

 

I believe I know who’s downstairs. I believe Baz knows as well. I’m assured by the holding of his hands--by the fearful tugging of my wrists and anxious rubbing of his fingertips. He believes I’m running to fight against him.

 

“If I die,” I murmur into him, forehead settling onto his. “I wish to be buried here. Understood?”

 

“Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Don't you  _ dare _ say that. You'll be safe--just go, you absolute madman. Fight.”

 

“I’ll fight  _ for _ you,” I assure, nose still brushing his. “Just swear to me that you will be here when I get back.”

 

“I promise. I promise, I promise, I promise. Now  _ go _ .”

 

I nod, cupping his face and kissing his nose once more before dashing off towards my room. I elect to ignore the fact that I’m completely nude and leaving Baz’s chambers, taking no notice to the scrambling servants down the hall. Inside my own chambers, I throw on just enough cloth to cover me while I search for my blade. It’d been so long since I’d laid a hand upon it that the location has now slipped slipped my memory. Eventually, I find it underneath my bed,  hidden under one of Baz’s embroidered handkerchiefs. It reads his initials in a off-grey spiraling cursive 

 

_ T.B.G.P. _

 

I tuck his cloth inside breast pocket, drawing up the sword whilst I turn it in my palm. It feels foreign--as if I shouldn’t be touching it. As if it’s no longer mine.

 

Nonetheless, I wield it, sprinting down the long corridors with it held somewhat-confidently at my side. At the base of the stairway, I look to see the lavish, wooden front doors hanging open. The fighting’s much louder from here, yet the action's still l contained beyond the walls.

 

I hear a piercing screeching, a feminine screech, and it makes my legs run harder.

 

I nudge past the door, breaking out onto the open ground and looking around fervently with the sword in my palm.

 

The grounds reek of blood and flesh, staining the rocky front yard around us. The land's descended  into a mad chaos; a blur of flashing swords and scattered fighters, all branding an all too familiar coat. They’re with Lord David.

 

As my eyes trail, I catch it. The source of the screaming.

 

Ebb’s got her staff waved at Lord David, trying to fend him off as best as she can. He advances, attempting to strike as she rolls onto the ground. She’s covered in muck and snow, looking filthy and worn. Lord David, on the other hand, is practically sparkling. A man of high class and inevitable murder, I suppose.

 

As I'm running across the yard, Ebb turns to me and glances over Lord David’s shoulder, eyes going wide and mouth opening to yell. I reach out, feeling my blood thunder through my brain. I don't even feel my feet hitting the ground, I just feel myself move forward.

 

It grows louder, red pounding up to my skin and washing over my vision as her face drops, body drooping at the collision of Lord David’s blade.

 

She slumps, staff rolling from her fingertips and onto the now bloodied snow. She crumbles beside it, proceeded by the turning of Lord David’s curious face.

 

I can only see the splattering maroon of her freshly spilled guts. It’s seared into my vision, making marks of twisting organs onto Lord David's face as he grows closer  “Simon, my boy!” he calls. I can’t tell if he’s angry or happy.

 

I don’t care either way.

 

“You killed her!” I cry, backing away and raising my blade to him. His expression’s warping, going dark and light and burning into the sky’s harsh background of early morning. It’s freezing. I’m freezing. Ebb’s corpse is feet away, and Lord David is the one who’d stabbed her down.

 

“She doesn’t matter,” he scoffs. His eyes are doubling in size, and my breathing isn’t quite working. It’s huffing out in spiked gasps, and the world is oozing out drips of dark, bleeding shadows. “She never mattered, Simon. None of them do--we have our chance now.”

 

My head wobbles from side to side, legs stumbling below me as I sway and raise my sword higher. “You… you…” I pant, eyes looking back at her, then up to Lord David.

 

“We have the upper hand now,” he encourages mindlessly, as if his face wasn’t a sudden target shot in a archery match.

 

I line up my weapon and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know where I am anymore. I don’t know who I am. My legs travel faster than my mind can take me, and my body’s now soaked without a wound on me.

 

It’s from him. It’s Lord David’s blood seeping from his chest--and his head. And from the slashes to his arms and his torso, spurting out onto me in gushing waves. It’s warm. It’s warmer than he’s ever been.

 

My eyes open slowly, yet I’m still blind. My skin prickles, chest pumping faster as I spin and spin, feet hitting a body on the ground beside me. I don’t register who’s it is, I simply see the green and purple jackets of his men, and slash when the colors come too close.

 

I’m a mindless man, trying to right what has been wronged here.

 

After I see again, I find that it was me all along. I’m the monster bathing in blood, watching the winter’s chill whisk long, spiraling tendrils of steam off the top of the bodies.

 

I see familiar faces standing off a distance away. It's Baron Grimm and his lovely wife.

 

The Baron’s on the one side of the grass, his own sword in hand and frozen in shock. His pant legs are wet, dampened up to above his knee. There’s barely a speck of debris upon his own weapon. All the while, the Baroness gapes by her grand doorway, now stained with the ghostly splatterings of my actions.

 

I let my sword fall, clattering down as the only sound left upon the land while I crumple onto my own wreckage.

 

Finally, the dam breaks and my tears begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, let me just say this: the tags say "angst with a happy ending", and so....... hold on babes, it's a-comin'
> 
> also, i'm sorry for such a short chapter, but i didn't want to ruin the moment by going any further. sorry not sorry for the bloodbath.


	11. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his head lifts, my heart falls from my chest and beats upon the well-swept floors. “Mr. Pitch…” I say breathlessly, eyes going wide as his head rises. A smile grows upon his lip while he removes off his hat and holds it to his chest.
> 
> “My apologies for the lack of notice,” he says, fingers running along the edge of his cap, “for my residence has been in a complete state of chaos since the end of December. Can’t imagine why…”
> 
> -
> 
> After months of separation, Mr. Pitch and Sir Snow are brought back together.

Raindrops trickle down the glass panes as soft pinks and hues of a muted yellow filter out into the expansive library of my own estate. It’s stuffy in here--almost untouched. I feel as though, until recently, it’s only been used for battle strategies rather than the simplistic pleasures offered through books and stories. Perhaps, none of us could truly savor them within the shared haze of Lord David’s intoxicating lust for poster.

 

I doubt I’ll ever be able to enjoy these books now, for now I feel no motivation other than to sit and stare onwards, seeking something and never quite grasping it. My thoughts lie there, withering in the air and haunting my mind. I wish it wasn’t quite morose, but it is. It truly is.

 

Everything around me exists as a ghost rather than true tangible objects. The now-dulled sheen of my sword, the blackness of my inkpot. Even these damned stories are beyond deceased, wasting away to dust whilst they sit settled upon countless, untouched bookshelves.

 

I’m bitter. I’m a bitter man, glaring towards the stained glass warpings of the outside world and taking no notice to footsteps growing near. They stop at the door, followed by a disgruntled sigh.

 

“Simon,” Penelope laments, going to sprawl out on the couch across from my armchair. She throws her feet up onto the seats in attempt to establish a disregard for the furniture. “You’re absolutely ridiculous--you  _ cannot _ mourn forever. It’s behind you, is it not?”

 

I don’t dare a glance at her. “I don’t see what you mean by mourn,” I mumble, knuckles pressed to my cheek. “I’m perfectly normal, am I not?”

 

She laughs right towards me, sitting upward as her hair tumbles back. It’s always in a poorly done up-do, despite the protests of her mother and her careful maid who both try endlessly to fix it. “Normal? Simon Snow, you’re anything but!”

 

“What’s abnormal about me, Penelope?”

 

“You stare,” she begins. “You stare and stare and don’t speak even  _ more _ than usual. And, on top of that, you barely drift outside into the common areas besides this and your own chambers. Worst of all,  _ you’ve barely eaten _ . You can’t possibly lie so blatantly to my face, can you?”

 

I turn my face slowly, feeling my vision twirl a bit. There’s the slight possibility that I’m mildly tipsy, given I’ve been drinking whatever and whenever I can since I’d arrived back months ago to this wretched residence.

 

It was such a sorrowful day, and such a bitter ending.

 

I wish I could’ve swayed it any other way. I wish I could turn back what had happened. I wish I could’ve kissed him one last time.

 

I’d gone through shock after the attack, and subsequently gotten myself ill through my own mind. I’d been shaken so violently that nobody dared touch me, staring on as my heart raced out of my chest and I’d gasped for air. In that moment, I’d prayed for any sense that what I was living was not real. 

 

Regardless, it proved to be a reality.

 

As the police came, the Baron remarkably stepped up to cover for my actions. He’d settled a claim with them, stating that it was one of his stronger guards, specifically the one who’d wielded a sword, who slashed all the men and then simply bled out on the fields from his injuries. All other fatalities were everyday casualties of the saddening event. I was sold as an innocent man to the court, having been given a good clean up before anyone saw me. They all bought it, not even questioning my case to any degree.

 

It was a blur. I’d barely had a chance to see Baz after the events, and especially not alone. He’d once tried to slip his hand into mine, which I’d desperately grabbed hold of before anyone could see us. The very moment a person would turn head in our direction, we’d dropped hands and froze, finding ourselves at least a foot in careful distance.

 

By the time the quick trial had ended, I’d been whisked away back towards my old residence, being told I was the only name left to watch the estate.

 

Before I knew it, four months past since the wretched Christmas day and no word from the Grimm-Pitches. Not even a whisper from Basilton has entered these halls, and I haven’t dared spoken a word of the nature of our relation, not even to Penelope. In all honesty, I’ve carried on the ruse of the courts--it wasn’t me, it was the servant who’d carried out the actions. According to the ruling, I’d barely touched a drop of blood.

 

It was as if I hadn’t seen Ebb fall. As if the events of the past months of my stay were nothing more than a strategic business visit to bridge our lives under the misguided plans of Lord David.

 

As if Baz and I hadn’t ever crossed into any territory, platonic or further.

 

I’m unsure of where he and I stand now, especially after our evening’s worth affair. Despite the limited time, it felt so real--it’d felt like an eternity. In such short time, I could picture him and I together on his grounds, spending a lifetime hand and hand. He could bite remarks off at me as he had before, but we’d solve it with soft kisses and small smiles to one another.

 

I love him. I truly do. I wish I didn’t--I wish I don’t, but I so desperately do.

 

Sadly, now I fear that I’ll never be allowed to express so.

 

“The Grimm-Pitch manor was different,” I say dismissively, hips shifting as I sit upright. “It’s simply upsetting that it ended in such brutality. I’m unsure of how to think of Lord David given his actions, and that complicates my thoughts over the inheritance. That is all.”

 

She stares across at me, crossing her legs. Her skirt sways, eyebrows narrowing in a pitiful squint as she chews on her lip. “Those aren’t words the Simon I know would speak...”

 

“I’m still that Simon.”

 

“You aren’t,” she shakes her head, “you’re so concerning, my dear friend. You know you can share anything with me. Anything.”

 

I slowly lower my jaw before snapping it back shut. “It’s useless problems of my own--you know of my overactive mind.”

 

“And I know of how few words it speaks,” she jokes back, starting to smile. “Come now, Simon, I’m not daft. Tell me what bothers you.”

 

My head slowly turns back towards the window, watching the late spring rain hit against the cherry glass. It streaks down slowly, leaving ripples over the light. “Allow me to mourn, Penelope.”

 

I catch her lean over her seat out of the corner of my vision, her head landing into her hands as she peers at me. For the moment being, the only sound around the room is the rain tapping against the house. Eventually, she grows bored and sighs whilst standing. Approaching me, dropping her hand onto my shoulder as the delicate purple ring glints in the sconce firelight. I allow her to stay, eyes falling shut.

 

We stay frozen in time, remaining silent until the sound of hooves and a carriage breaks our trance. Automatically, I frown, hips shifting in discomfort. “I’d thought I’d sent away the last of the ongoing rotation of pity-bringers,” I bitterly remark, adjusting my cuffed sleeves.

 

“You had--”

 

I stand, shrugging her hand off as I button my jacket closed. “I wish not for any more visitors at this time,” I continue, calling out into the house as I push past the library doors and make my way down to the front room. “Had I not made it clear? I wish for solitude in these troubling times.”

 

“Simon!” Penelope calls, running after me. “Nobody called to state a visit--”

 

We both stop short, the servants pulling the doors open as a tall gentleman steps inside, accompanied by various traveling cases. Enough for a long stay, at that.

 

As his head lifts, my heart falls from my chest and beats upon the well-swept floors. “Mr. Pitch…” I say breathlessly, eyes going wide as his head rises. A smile grows upon his lip while he removes off his hat and holds it to his chest.

 

“My apologies for the lack of notice,” he says, fingers running along the edge of his cap, “for my residence has been in a complete state of chaos since the end of December. Can’t imagine why…”

 

I gawk at him, body stiff and unmoving as he speaks. He gives me such weak, unsure glances as he continues.

 

“Suppose it’s in poor assumption that my company is welcome, but as of recent, they’ve been redoing the grounds and cleansing the house. I’ve had to stay there up until recently to see everything fit, but my family had been dispersed for these next twelve months. Seeing as we’d offered you housing, I was quite hoping that you’d have at least a spare room for me…”

 

Penelope stands between us, head turning back and forth and cutting to speak before me. “My apologies, Mr. Pitch, but we’ve chosen to keep our privacy for the next--”

 

“I appreciate the commitment to our current status of housing, Miss Bunce,” I say quickly, halting her with a raised hand as I refuse to remove my gaze from Baz’s. “But Mr. Pitch is more than welcome at this time. His family had been most welcoming upon my stay, and I can only offer the same onto him.”

 

His lip quirks up at me in only a way that I can recognize now as appreciation. It makes my mind go all mad.

 

Despite my clarity, Penelope blinks at me in confusion as she grabs my sleeve and tugs it. “Sir Snow, I believe we should discuss this…”

 

“Not necessary,” I say, gesturing to the servants before addressing them directly. “See to it that Mr. Pitch is settled into our largest visitor’s chambers.”

 

They nod, carrying off his bags as Baz stays put, hands folded behind his back. His face seamlessly shifted back to its typical borderline-scowl, eyebrows raised towards Penny. I try to ignore her incessant comments about her wariness, but it proves to be more of a growing nuisance. Clearly, she wishes to speak at once.

 

I clear my throat, nodding toward Baz as I slowly begin to step aside with her. “Mr. Pitch, if you wish to lounge, I shall meet you in the library. Allow a servant to take you there--I shall only be a minute.”

 

He nods back as I’m pulled off, practically thrown into the dining room while the doors shut behind us. “Are you absolutely mad?!” Penelope remarks, hands held up in front of her in a wild gesture. “He-he-he-he… Lord, his family! Good God, Simon, what are you thinking? The Pitches are not our friends, nor have they ever been!”

 

I straighten myself up, fixing my collar as I glance helplessly towards the door. I wish only to run off to the library and pull Baz into my embrace, never to let go again. It’s been far too long, and I oh-so dearly miss the way his hair falls through my fingers. “We’re allies now,” I say as calmly as possible. “He and I particularly agreed upon a truce at my time of visit. Such old time's animosity is gone, and I believe that you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

 

She stares at me, eyebrows knitting as she crosses her arms. Her glasses rest upon her nose, and when she tips her head towards the ground, the slide down the bridge. “You…” she begins before she exhales, pinching her temples. “I shouldn’t be so trusting.  _ You _ shouldn’t be so trusting.”

 

“I’m aware,” I say, reaching out for her hands and holding both tightly. “The air of rumours that follow Mr. Pitch and his family are thick and unavoidable, but alas, I must beg of you to overlook them. I know what I am doing, and my actions are more me over anyone else.”

 

Her hands turn over, squeezing mine back. “I’m going to regret this,” she mumbles inwardly as I break into a grin.

 

“If in the coming months you do regret this, then I swear to eat my own words.”

 

Our hands squeeze once more, her weight shifting carefully. “Fine then.” She drops me, throat clearing. “Go on and speak to him. I doubt I’ll be of much use in that conversation. But, Simon, you must promise to shout if anything is to go awry.”

 

“I swear,” I say, cheeks creasing further into a smile as I retreat back out of the room and up into the library. There, I find Baz standing by the same stained glass window I’d starred out upon not even an hour before. He turns once I approach, the door carefully shut behind me.

 

“Such a lovely design,” he begins, voice sounding soft and hesitant. “French?”

 

“Italian,” I say, carefully reaching my hand out towards him and sliding my palm against his. Immediately, I feel his fingers wrap around mine.

 

“It’s beautiful.” He speaks more towards me, eyes dropping to meet mine. “Gorgeous.”

 

I feel myself go weak, having no other reaction to his words other than to grab his face and pull it down to mine. He softens onto me, his lips tenderly pressing onto mine as his other hand laces through my hair. We stay pressed up to one another, my body locked into his gentle embrace for as long as I can make myself stay.

 

He’s the one to break first, head pulling backwards and leading me to impulsively chase his lips. He allows me, a smile sneaking upon him as I eagerly slip my tongue into his mouth.

 

Despite all my desperate attempts at making up for our lost days of intimacy, it isn’t nearly enough to serve a good explanation for what we are to do. So when Baz pulls back from me again, I allow him to.

 

“I missed you.” His words hit my cheek, face hovering close as we keep in each other’s arms. “And so painfully so.”

 

My fingers trace down neck, feeling the soft bump of his scar. He doesn’t recoil. “I waited for a letter--for anything. Nothing came.”

 

He exhales, eyes remaining shut. “I’m aware, and I apologise deeply for that. I’ve been far too busy to write, but I promise that I’d kept you in the forefront of my mind. I’d been counting the days until I could make my visit.”

 

I slowly feel up towards his scalp, filling a handful of hair between my fingers. “Are you truly staying for a year?” I whisper. In response, his head nods against me, lips pecking my cheek before his nose settles into my skin. I nearly melt, finding myself grinning carelessly at his sweet touches.

 

I allow my hands to drop further down his body, resting against his chest and delicately unbuttoning his suit jacket. Once opened, I push aside the rest of his clothing until my hand rests against his bare chest, feeling the steady beating of his heart.

 

“What are you doing?” he utters, sounding more curious than concerned. I simply smile, eyes falling shut.

 

“I needed an absolute confirmation that this is real,” I shrug, head resting forward while his lips brush my forehead. “That, and to know you’re still alive and well.”

 

He chuckles against me, hands sliding around my jaw and tipping my face upwards. I smile helplessly--his skin is smooth and cool, and it feels like I’m pressing my face to well treated marble.

 

“I’m more than well now.” His thumb drags across my cheek, smile softer than ever. It seems as though he’s a different man around me. No longer does he hold sharp edges and jagged glares, but instead it’s replaced with his loving actions. Lips pressed down onto my skin, skirting, careful hands. Everything that shows he’s here. “Are you well and alive?” He asks.

 

I nearly don’t answer, downcasting my eyes onto the odd veins snaking through his hands. They dip and curve delicately, making them interesting enough to allow for a good distraction. Although, after minutes, Baz’s thumb stops stroking and forces me back into reality. “It still hurts,” I let out. “The attack. Ebb. Especially Ebb. I can’t sleep a wink without seeing her face and smelling the blood.” I shutter. “I can’t focus any longer. Everything feels so bleak, so overwhelming.”

 

As I speak, his hand slowly trails into my hair and pets it down slowly. I relax into him, swaying unconsciously before resting into his body. Whilst my head settles upon his chest, I listen to the steady thumping of his heart and attempt to think away my issues.

 

He’s the closest I’ve ever come to true safety. Despite our distance, and despite the romantic aspects of the encounter we had before being so brief, I’ve never felt more comfort in anybody but him before.

 

In the past months, I’ve thought endlessly on the matter of our relationship prior to Christmas Eve, especially how little I had noticed. He and I grew remarkably close--to the point of only one result, and that being the one we’re at now. I’d considered writing him to apologise for all the missed time. For the longest time, I’d believed that, perhaps, the attacks had been my fault. If only I’d kissed him sooner, all the damage would have been more controlled. If only...

 

“It’s my fault,” he says outwardly, hand pushing back my curls as my chin tilts back up. Despite my beginning of a protest, he cuts me off with a quick, wobbling shake of his head, “No. I shouldn’t have gone off trying to find answers. It must’ve tipped him off, somehow. I was careless and selfish, and--”

 

“Stop,” I demand, reaching up to cover his mouth with my hand. He stares at me, eyes wide and nearly glassy as he watches my head shake. “Please, I beg of you, do not blame yourself over the actions of someone so cruel as he. It’s not your fault, nor will it ever be yours.”

 

His lips purse against my palm before his head bobs, eyes closing as I remove my hand. I steal a brief kiss, eyes shutting and staying closed despite us breaking apart so quickly. Our foreheads meet, heads settling there for the time being. I wish I could say that neither of us are crying, but such a lie would stand testament for our usual denial of feelings. From this point onwards, I no longer wish to hide anything; it’s all open. It’s all said. Everything I wish for; everything I think of.

 

“Baz?” My hands find his, holding them tightly. In response, he simply winds our fingers together and hums before letting me speak again. “You promised me something long ago, yet never fulfilled it.”

 

“And what is that?” There’s a clear smile in his voice, leaking slight joy in his words.

 

“You’d promised me a nice weekend outing,” I whisper, head tilting to the side as our noses bump together. “Theatre shows, live music. Just you and I.”

 

He laughs, his chest rumbling along with him. “I must’ve been laboring under the impression that you’d forgotten about that proposition.”

 

I grin, head shaking as my lips graze his. “Never had.” We kiss once before I finish. “May I be bold and ask of you take me out on such getaway?” His lips press to my cheek. “Show me what you know, and teach me what I don’t?” He’s moved to my jaw, nearly kissing the bottom of my ear. “Just you and I.”

 

“Sir Snow,” he teases, dropping my hand while elegantly draping his arm around my waist, “are you tempting me for a proper romantic outing?”

 

I grin hard enough to make my cheeks ache. “I’m tempting you for a lifetime of outings. This is simply the first one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i say fuck yet?
> 
> fuck. holy fuck. can i just say fuck a lot as a finishing statement? fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. fuck? fuck.
> 
> i'm beyond happy for everyone who supported this fic. i'm so lucky to have every single reader, and i'm thankful for all of you. i'm hoping that you all had a good adventure along with me in this victorian style, and i'm happy to have this put out here. in all honesty, i was watching pride and prejudice (yknow--the good version) the other day, and i couldn't help but smile and think of this fic because of rainbow's face cast of young colin firth as simon and there he was. my fancy boy simon in fancy boy clothes. then, it hit me. i'm gonna miss him.
> 
> as much as i'll miss all of these victorian nerds, i know i have to end it here. i only feel it proper to give them a good send off, and to leave you with this fact for this AU:
> 
> they end up together until the end of their days. they exchange rings, and adopt two dogs, as well as a child (eventually), and, most importantly, they're happy. they're in love and they're happy.


End file.
